


Of Phantasm and Fury

by MelanijaParadis



Series: The Amber Apologues [1]
Category: Charmed (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe-Music University, Angst, Australia, Austria, Black amber laced simulation crystal, Canada, Colorado, Dreamscapes, F/M, Hacy, Healing, Italy, New Orleans, New Zealand, Seattle, Singapore, empath magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:47:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 52,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28154085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelanijaParadis/pseuds/MelanijaParadis
Summary: Macy catches Harry kissing Abigael and seeks solace in the simulation crystal, laced with black amber. Harry realizes his oldest charge is missing and begins searching for her. Macy seeks escape, experiencing convoluted dreamscape flashbacks—phantasms—as a direct result of the black amber, encountering Antonio in her imagined sojourn in Siena, Italy and elsewhere within the confines of the contaminated simulation crystal. If she isn’t found in time, she'll be trapped in the black amber crystal forever.
Relationships: Abigael Jameson-Caine/Mel Vera, Harry Greenwood & Macy Vaughn, Harry Greenwood/Macy Vaughn, Jordan Chase/Maggie Vera, Parker Caine/Laila Young
Series: The Amber Apologues [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2062569
Comments: 82
Kudos: 19





	1. Crux of the Curvature

1 Crux of the Curvature

_“This is the part where your world falls to pieces” -E.H. Hanson_

_Day 1_

Breath ragged, chest heaving in punctuated gasps, her icy skin—elegant lineaments woven to bone to feminine musculature—no longer intertwining with _his_ , no hope of _ever,_ she noiselessly exited the grey-worn, cavernous underground command center to the dimmed burnished brick alcove— _or was it the boiler room?_ She could never be sure, as she once again found herself upon a precipice of her own undoing, a threshold, one of countless, practically created from the moment of her very inception.

_First, her birth tale, a horror story turned triumph—a baby brought back from the depths of the underworld—_

But at a steep price, as she well knew by this point. Her mother. _Marisol._ A woman she was told time and time again she resembled, from the color of her curled mahogany tresses to the elegant fine-hewn cheekbones adorning her smooth visage. A woman she could never lay eyes on, per the necromancer’s decree, should she wish for her mother to live on this good green earth. A lesson she learned in past months, trying a multiplicity of times, and failing repeatedly, to create realities upon realities in which Marisol survived, met her eldest—and was _happy_. All she ever wanted was for her family to be _happy._ But what about _her_ , Macy Vaughn?

_Her own life, from its very beginning, was about sacrifices for the greater good—_

_Her solitary existence. Raised apart from her mother. Her newfound family._ She shivered, goosebumps raised beneath her coat, congregating in clustered constellations on her shoulders, realizing her thermal body temperature had decreased. If she were in a better state of mind, she would have walked out of this alcove—this _mud room_ —this _threshold—_ to the urban steel and glass-enclosed surroundings, sleek trappings of modernity, stumbling then traipsing every now and then, a malcontent monologue to the luminous moon of her latest failed attempt at love, stoking her pain in the wilderness of tall towers and cityscape lighting. Landing at the threshold of the manor she called home, she would enter, fixing herself a cup of tea—not coffee—but _tea—_ before tears mingled with its murky hue, and she downed a river of sorrow.

Her state of mind, this time around, was far too fragile to weather something so everyday, so _commonplace,_ as an evening walk—as if she hadn’t just witnessed _that_ unspeakable act, her insides turning to lead. Every fiber of her body hoped it was a nightmare, a high-strung result of sleep deprivation, having exerted too much effort toward experimenting with black amber yet again in a torpid, turgid haze. She wished it could only have been an alternate horror dimension of Abigael’s latest nefarious design. _Hoped and wished—but knew better._

Somehow incapable of departure from the shimmering shadows of the alcove she found herself in, she leaned against the rough brick—picturing a bricklayer, shaping mounds of mud and earth with his weary hands, using a furnace to scorch its tender spirit whole, to ashes and hardness, devoid of feeling. With a murmured set of cries, she wept, her eyes pointed skyward. _Betrayal of the worst sort._ By a man she had hoped, this unearthly evening hour _,_ would draw heat and passion from within her soul into the light. _Their_ souls.

When she first pushed the metallic door open via mystical means, she contemplated the ordinary—took everything for granted—a crush, _limerence_ , to transform more likely than not into something of a higher plane. _A risk—a calculated one._ Always the scientist, she believed in evidence-based theories…and testing a hypothesis every now and then.

 _He stares longingly, and you reciprocate. His hands linger, his hugs tightened—and it’s probably not_ just _out of friendship—_

Closing her eyes, her shoe brushing against the glittering urban balcony, she rehearsed her lines, imagining she would descend the staircase to where he stood stock-still, captivated by her melanin form, glowing beneath the incandescent industrial light—a halo, for a woman of light and darkness.

 _Harry, I have feelings for you—_ she planned to say.

And she posited, foot landing atop the balcony grate, that perhaps he would stride closer. _Hug_ her, perhaps, in the way he always did, giving the appearance of platonic friendship, while burying his nose in her curls to capture the scent of cinnamon and cloves she knew he loved so much, from the brief flickers she had gleaned from his subconscious mind, some weeks and months before.

Then, they would lift their heads, consumed in the newness of their emotions, on the brink of the unknown. Still embracing, they would study the other’s eyes. _The glitter and glimmer of hope, unrefined and undefined._ The eyebrows denoting patience and subtle charm—for in her mind, perhaps they _could_ have a _forever—_ she wondered what it would be like, him reaching a gentle hand to stroke her visage, though in a manner entirely different from that of his darker self. _Dark Harry. Dirty Harry._

She knew now, reigning in her footsteps to pad silently upon the metal— _an art form in and of itself_ —that she cared for him, was ready to open her heart after a lifetime of people leaving, of lives lost—as she moved toward the balcony’s fenced ledge to peer down at her hopefully, future love. Anticipating that maybe she would be permitted, in this realm, a modicum of _joy_. A glimmer of _happiness_. Love, requited in _every_ sense of the word, as she suddenly stopped in her tracks, staring below in horror.

_How wrong she had been._

_It began in the attic._ A dance they had commenced over the solitary time spent in that topmost chamber, each gently hovering over the other while examining ancient proto-Sumerian texts, the aroma of fresh biscuits and maple tickling her senses, which soon turned into elongated sessions watching a certain 1990s paranormal TV show as they sat upon the faded couch, laptop perched on the oaken coffee table, snacks at the ready. He always _did_ have a sweet tooth, and somehow made the best tea and cookies she had ever had in her lifetime, even for her discerning palate.

A sidelong glance after an episode viewing in the attic, their hands brushing against each other— _on purpose or by accident, she did not know_ —evolved into _more_ , in gradual bits and pieces, winding, inveigling, _extending_ beyond the attic walls to the upstairs floor to her room, haunting her in her dreams as she slept, the kitchen too, as she would enter, drowsy and hungry for succor, not to mention the rest of the manor—

Those meaningful glances, those prolonged once-overs of her form-fitting, above-the-knee dresses as she went out with her sisters on the rare occasion—meant _nothing_ to him apparently, from the way things looked at present, from where she was situated. _Nothing._ Those accidental readings of his heart— _I love you, I adore you, take my heart, mold it, make of it what you will—_ those declarations, and the breathless seconds she would glance up from her book to find him in rapturous gaze— _gone._

_Vera Manor, and realizing she had two long-lost sisters—_

Wiping her tears, one after another, she briefly recalled her shared stately Victorian home and her sisters, but sadness pierced her in staggered shards, interrupting those familial thoughts, fading fast into the miasmic shadows. Pulse racing, she attempted to take several deep breaths, as if in yoga class once more— _pranayama breathing—fill the lungs, contract the throat, breathe through the nose._

_Anything to steel her resolve._

_Anything to make her forget._

Feeling a circular weight within her coat pocket, she retrieved the item, remembering its function as an exploration tool of fantasy and fiction. Rolling the engorged marble over her digits, she noticed, for a moment, a grey fabric dancing within—but perhaps it was a figment of her imagination. Re-examining under the dim light, she saw nothing but her own reflection staring up at her, mahogany curls, watery, woebegone expression besides.

Several minutes passed, though it could have been days for all she knew, having lost any and all concept of time, of caring, of wanting, of… _being_.

Lips meeting the polished quartz, unaware of the sticky dark amber residue set upon its hidden curvature, she held the stone in the palm of her hand, recalling a term—

_Phantasm—noun: a figment of the imagination; an illusion or apparition…_

The lexicon flickered across her mind, albeit briefly, as she attempted to sweep her face dry with her honey-hued canvas coat once more, to no avail.

 _“Escape,”_ she whispered, tears flowing in rivulets down her sun-kissed cheeks, intermingling with the now smoke-addled sphere.

“ _Help me—”_

_“Escape.”_


	2. Sweet Siena Cypress

2 Sweet Siena Cypress

_“…The scene where the curtain is drawn” -E.H. Hanson_

_Day 1, continued_

_“Escape,”_ she whispered, tears flowing in rivulets down her sun-kissed cheeks, intermingling with the cool reflective yet increasingly smoke-addled sphere.

“ _Help me—”_

_“Escape.”_

The room spun about in a darkened haze, wafts of willowy aqua, cerulean, sapphire hues emanating forth from the orb, melding with shades of umber, blue butterflies dancing outward— _from where did they come?_ Macy briefly wondered—monarch butterflies too, which flitted upward to join its cobalt predecessors, before disappearing entirely, as miasmic hemisphere blended into illusory stratosphere.

She felt herself lifted by an unseen powerful force, then hurtled headlong into a blended dreamscape, her arms covering her head protectively, per instinct as her ears popped on descent, a humanoid device of errant navigation, wind whistling past the nape of her neck. Eyes sealed shut, she braced for impact—

_And felt none._

_Sunny Undisclosed Location, Simulation Crystal_

Surprised, she opened an eye, then another, realizing she was facing what she recognized to be the Palazzo Pubblico, a 13th century medieval Gothic architectural wonder, its lower story made of stone, its upper crenellated stories of burnt umber brick. If she squinted close enough, she could see at the very topmost of the building’s façade, a round flat bronze plate, a Christogram, a symbol emblematic of Saint Bernardino himself, planted there by the government of ages before, in gratitude for his work at stemming social unrest and turmoil.

 _Chaos,_ in other words. Recalling her late father’s words—“if lost, find a landmark”—it seemed she already had. The Palazzo Pubblico was Italian.

_She, Macy Vaughn, was in Italy._

_Siena, Italy, by the looks of it._

How funny it was, that her fervent desire to retreat from the horrors of ill-fated love had led her here— _here—_ of all places! _Or was it?_ Siena, after all, was the first place she had journeyed solo as an exchange student, many years ago. It was, as she recalled of that intercontinental adventure, the first time she could shed preconceived notions of herself, meet new people, create a new persona—and just—

_Be—_

_Herself._

Stumbling to her feet, she massaged her back on instinct, though painless her landing had been. Glancing at her immediate left and right, she spotted aged amber-crimson brick enclaves with what appeared to be faded robins egg blue-hued shutters, most of which were closed at this particular hour—

 _What time_ was _it?_

Generally, from what she remembered of Italy those summers ago, people left their shutters open to soak in the early morning sunshine, but closed them the warmer the day became, in the sultry sunshine of the afternoon, just prior to the early evening hours.

Peering at the overhead sky, she gasped in amazement at the glorious display of silver-streaked _chiaroscuro_ clouds, their shape roughly resembling clusters of bountiful Grecian vineyard grapes, a buttery sunlight bursting forth just beneath the outermost expanse of the leftmost brick building, before turning her attention to the palazzo’s front, its aged cobblestones devoid of human transience.

A shimmer of light distracted her as she made for the palazzo. Her eyes searched, and found, the source of its brightness—what appeared to be a birdbath—its water the crispest and most reflective she had ever known, its liquid luscious and lovely, tantalizing and true. This, she guessed, was a portal back—

_Back to her nightmare, perhaps._

But, tossing her mahogany curls as they in turn caught glimmers of the glittering sunlight, she continued forward, excited to start life anew.

_Palazzo, Siena, Italy, Simulation Crystal_

No sooner had the very thought occurred to her, did she find herself in a covered outdoor hallway in the building dreamt within the confines of her imagination, its archways and ionic pillars in classical, tasteful adornment, the flooring of checkered black-and-white marble, flattened and polished over centuries of onlookers, tourists, patrons alike. A single ornate relic of a lantern hung from a chain, cemented to the ceiling, its amber-glass glow belying its age. She noted with a sense of wry humor what appeared to be chia pet-like sprouts from open modern terra cotta balcony fixtures, juxtaposed with a sculpture to their left, depicted holding a relic and either screaming in silent fury or begging voicelessly. _Whichever it was, she couldn’t tell._

Past the statue, she spotted French-stylized curved balcony doors and accompanying wrought-iron fixtures, uniform in appearance and size, similar to ones she imagined Jordan and Maggie would have passed through in New Orleans.

_Sameness and a wanderlust miracle of a mirage._

_A mirage of mirages._

Maybe here, she posited to herself, she could rest her weary soul and reassemble the broken pieces of her wayward heart. Perhaps, she could learn what it meant to experience joy and happiness again, and exercise her voice—her wants, _her_ needs—so carelessly shoved aside by a certain Whitelighter in favor of a pasty inferior subordinate.

To say _her_ name, even now, _especially_ now, seemed a degradation, a desecration of the wondrous universe before her, created of her own crystallized imagination, of amalgamated travel memories of yore.

Stepping closer to the pillared balcony awning, she noticed below her, a sun-soaked summer courtyard— _and was that a wineglass sitting at each miniature circular table-for-two?_

_Flashback_

_The wrought-iron metallic loomed weave of the elevated flooring—those perfectly parallel prison bars perpendicular to her coltish, unsteadied feet—cool conditioned whistling wind manufactured throughout the walls of this magical territory, this—terroir—traveling through an underground balcony overlooking a sordid scene of—of—cavorting—_

_Palazzo, Siena, Italy, Simulation Crystal_

Grasping a worn pillar amid a gasp, heart beating fast, Macy shook her head, taking slow shallow breaths, attempting to free herself of _those_ thoughts, those painful remembrances that pricked at her consciousness akin to a sledgehammer.

_I won’t let her—_

_I won’t let him—_

_get to me._

Thinking back to her exchange program days, she recalled, after arriving, being assigned a place to stay. _Her bedroom. Her ephemeral sanctuary._ Instantly, she found herself directed, as if by an unseen force, down a marble covered courtyard corridor, to a heavy vineyard barrel-stylized barricaded door roughly a few inches thick, by the look of it. Hesitating for a second or two, she debated whether it would be more reasonable—to return whence she came, through the hallway, past the courtyard, out toward the Palazzo fountain—when the door suddenly swung open of its own accord, as if sensing her inward reticence.

_Dorm, Palazzo, Siena, Italy, Simulation Crystal_

The _endroit_ appeared simple— _primitive_ almost, with a certain undefinable austere elegance that reminded her of Snow White’s cottage when she escaped to live with the seven dwarves. She half-expected a group of such men to greet her by the door, per the fairy tale, but was mostly relieved when she discovered the chamber empty of otherworldly presence.

Removing her shoes—revealed now to be dark, stylish Milanese leather boots—just past the door, she stepped further within, examining the cottage-like interior, whose size was surprisingly ample, considering it was supposed to be a single room.

_Or was it?_

Wood gave way to early century tile, a plain ecru or eggshell color, as she crept along, noticing two beds, each of which held above themselves an empty forged blacksmith canopy skeleton, as if a vagabond had crept in, late the evening prior, stealing the fabrics paired alongside it, that would have transformed it into a queenly domain. The walls were a tan color, with stenciled drawings of Mediterranean cypress trees, common in Siena, within a countryside grove, with swirled clouds billowing overhead. _Cupressus sempervirens._ Its monochrome hue reminded her vaguely of “Madonna with the Yardwinder,” a chalk sketch upon similarly-colored parchment by none other than famed Leonardo Da Vinci, circa 1501.

If her memory served her correctly, the original was housed at the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. _One hour and nine minutes precisely by ItaliaRail._ She would know, having made the journey many years ago in the corporeal realm. She had been puzzled, as a self-described perfectionist, as to why a seemingly rough draft drawing, markings of past drafts evident upon its surface, had been displayed for thousands of people to see.

The woman reminded her of the Mona Lisa, its enigmatic expression depicting the barest hint of a smile, her eyes somehow heavy-lidded with sorrow. _How can you be happy and sad at the same time?_

_Flashback_

“ _Perch_ _é viene visualizza questa bozza approssimativa_?” _Why is this rough draft displayed?_ She had asked an Uffizi museum guard doubling as docent this question, and he shook his head in exasperation as though she’d insulted his cooking _and_ his sainted mother, gesticulating wildly if to say, _lady, not all work needs to be finished to be perfect_.

_Dorm, Palazzo, Siena, Italy, Simulation Crystal_

Sitting upon the bed of her choosing, the one closest to the lightly-enscribed Mediterranean Cypress etchings, she exhaled deeply for the first time in what seemed like forever. She had not fully understood the guard’s words until now. She realized she was a work in progress, flawed, entrenched in emotional pain, _agonizingly_ so—but she could surround herself with that which was mystically _perfect,_ and in doing so, learn what it was to build herself whole, piece by piece, no matter how long it took.

 _Once upon a time, there was a scared, heartbroken woman who ran away from the only kingdom she ever knew…_ she formulated a fairy tale as she fell fast asleep, surrounded by sumptuous linen pillows, exhausted by her perilous and altogether unconventional journey.


	3. On Confidants and Chianti Classico

3 On Confidants and Chianti Classico

_“…Where the pages that speak of your life fill with creases…” -E.H. Hanson_

_Day 1, continued_

_Dorm, Palazzo, Siena, Italy, Simulation Crystal_

Sitting upon the bed of her choosing, the one closest to the lightly-enscribed Mediterranean Cypress etchings, she exhaled deeply for the first time in what seemed like forever. She had not fully understood the guard’s words until now. She realized she was a work in progress, flawed, entrenched in emotional pain, _agonizingly_ so—but she could surround herself with that which was mystically _perfect,_ and in doing so, learn what it was to build herself whole, piece by piece, no matter how long it took.

 _Once upon a time, there was a scared, heartbroken woman who ran away from the only kingdom she knew…_ she formulated a fairy tale in her head as she fell fast asleep moments later, exhausted by her perilous and altogether unconventional journey.

_Dorm, Palazzo, Siena, Italy, Simulation Crystal_

A _thump_ , and she awoke. Searching for the source of the unexpected noise, her eyes fell upon a tall, dark-haired man, whose face was momentarily obscured from view, as he unpacked his belongings onto the other bed within the same room, though far further within.

 _“Not Harry---please—not Harry—not Harry—”_ she whispered to herself, her eyes never leaving the figure as he turned—

_Revealing a rather suntanned, comely visage, possibly of Latin heritage, with deep-yet-mirthful eyes. Eyes that spoke of mischief. And modernity._

The man seemed tall enough—not as tall as Harry, but close—sturdy and sure as well, somewhat younger— _definitely_ younger—observing him to be closer to Maggie’s age range. Before she could so much as _blink_ — _react,_ even, he strode toward her, a cheeky glint in his eye, as he kissed his lips to her fingers by way of greeting.

“I,” he said in an unmistakable American accent, “am Antonio.”

_Dorm, Palazzo, Siena, Italy, Simulation Crystal_

She could tell, just by the way he greeted her, that he was in his own puppy way, utterly besotted. Considering herself open-minded, she figured that he was good enough—heck, _anyone_ was good enough—as a friend—after the debacle she walked in on earlier. Even if she failed to sense in her interaction with Antonio any of the telltale sparks she’d had in a past life not so very long ago with a certain British man. Maybe that meant trading passion for predictability, sordid for the seemingly shiny, but she was willing to try anything, to heal her fragile heart.

“Hi, _er,_ Antonio,” she awkwardly disentangled her hand from his languid touch, himself making no motion to resist. “I-I didn’t know I’d get a— _a—” Companion? Friend? Surprise person?_

“A roommate of the opposite gender?” he raised an eyebrow as Macy laughed nervously.

“Yeah _—that—" Roommate. Sharer of a domestic dwelling._ But before she could say anything further, a curlicue of black amber flickered her surroundings to a mysteriously cloistered location.

_Cloisters, Palazzo, Siena, Italy, Simulation Crystal_

She—and _he_ —found themselves within what appeared to be an altogether unassuming room just off a main cathedral hall—away from the towering _apse,_ the ornate, splendiferous _nave._

_Was this part and parcel of the simulation crystal? Why was Antonio here? And why were scenes flitting without her say-so?_

“Based on your questionnaire, with 98% certainty, you and Antonio are an _excellent_ match—platonic or mentorship or romantic—for your mutual determination,” Macy and Antonio exchanged puzzled glances, then turned to the source of the information, a middle-aged woman neither of them appeared to recognize.

“S- _Sorry?_ ” Macy breathed. “Questionnaire? I didn’t fill out a—”

“My dear, you _did,_ even if you didn’t realize it. An emotional litmus test, based on _where_ in Italy, and _where,_ specifically in Siena, you landed.”

 _Where? Didn’t she arrive solo in the simulation crystal?_ She reflected, recalling the—

“Palazzo fountain—” she and Antonio spoke together in unison.

“But doesn’t _everyone_ land there?” Antonio remarked skeptically, as the older woman shook her head.

“Only those experiencing dire emotional turmoil.”

Macy felt her insides freeze, comprehending that somehow, her anguished state of being was out in the open for the world to see—or at least, _two of its simulated inhabitants_.

_Cloisters, Palazzo, Siena, Italy, Simulation Crystal_

Seconds, then minutes ticked by as Macy digested the information, staring at the gravelly gargoyles perched at each corner, the stark timber pews maintaining their upright posture that seemed more appropriate in New England Puritanism, the monotonous drone of organ music piping through from a distance, elevator music in an elevated purgatory, if there ever was one. _In a sense, being in this crystal was a form of neither here-nor-there—an in-between—a purgatory too—_

Wringing her hands out of habit, Macy spoke again. “What about the remaining 2%?” She was a scientist at heart, after all, familiar with exacting figures and statistical configurations.

“That’s for you to figure out,” the answer came with an enigmatic smile, akin to a contemporary Wizard of Oz— _or Witch of Oz?_ The woman, Macy noticed, seemed surprisingly blasé about the entire concept. _But then again, it wasn’t the woman’s livelihood at stake._

_Nobody will care about your life the way I do._

_Nobody will be as invested in your future as I am._

Closing her eyes, she remembered the sayings put forth by her disciplinarian father, Dexter, who constantly harbored suspicion over others’ motives and means, perhaps out of well-meaning caution due to Macy’s birth history and his loss of Marisol by necromancer means. Her history, immutable despite headstrong attempts months earlier to sway, her father’s words pierced her soul, even if he hadn’t intended them to. His comforting prose turned amidst the dark amber-laced crystal to warnings of wayward loyalty.

_Trust no one._

_No one but yourself._

_Balcony, Palazzo, Siena, Italy, Simulation Crystal_

Sipping from her stemmed glass of white wine, a scintillating “ _Chianti Classico_ ” according to the staff, she gazed past the burnished rose-hued turrets and tiffanied towers toward the expansive Italianate countryside, Mediterranean Cypress, cultivated vineyards, verdant hillsides, and ancient estates dotted in the distance. She recalled how this particular controversial white grape Chianti Classico had gone extinct, prohibited in 2006 due to purported inauthenticity.

_Malvasia, Trebbiano varietals, to be exact._

Their burgundy counterpart, Marzemino, replaced both in their stead.

She swallowed hard. _Burgundy—_ as in the exact shade of a certain porcelain-visaged wench lurking in the sordid shadows of a metallic corridor, far beneath the earth’s surface—

Another sip, and she felt her mind loosen, tension dissipating as her thoughts turned to the man keeping her company, seated across from her at this patio table for two. _Was she the mentor in this ill-gotten friendship? Or the mentee?_ If she had been just a touch more sober, she would’ve remarked upon the earlier woman’s words, wondering if they were but remnants of a once-heavily patriarchal society. But tired of fighting her inward emotions and determined to seek happiness and fulfillment— _whatever that meant in this dimension—_ she took a third sip. _And another—_

As she felt a gentle hand remove the glass from her grasp, as if in platonic comfort.

“ _Come_ , Macy, be my mentor, my _friend,_ and I will make you the happiest, _proudest_ woman alive—”

She inhaled sharply. It had been _years_ since she’d experienced a tender touch—a touch with no pressure—a touch of true, affectionate _camaraderie_. The men of her past had shamed her subconsciously, for not stating her innermost feelings, for being a latecomer to the dating sphere, for…she paused. _Many things. Too many to count._

Now _this_ on the other hand—

This, whatever _this_ was with Antonio—

Seemed to be _exactly_ what she wanted.

 _Friendship,_ in this elegant, interdimensional plane.

_Command Center, SafeSpace, Seattle, Washington_

Exhausted, Harry breathed heavily, utterly spent from the earlier day’s vanquishing, not to mention an inconvenient, impromptu, _highly_ regrettable encounter of the lascivious sort. He thought he’d heard— _a creaking pipe? A noise?_ He glanced upward toward the iron grated balcony, his lips stained, besmirched with the stolen brushings of evil, his collar undone and unbecoming, completely and utterly _uncouth_.

_Mace?_

Perhaps it was just a shadow.


	4. Of Passatino and Parchment

4 Of Passatino and Parchment

_“…And your dreams are all weary and worn…” -E.H. Hanson_

_Day 1, continued_

_Command Center, SafeSpace, Seattle, Washington_

_Mace?_

Perhaps it was just a shadow.

_Balcony, Palazzo, Siena, Italy, Simulation Crystal_

“ _Come_ , Macy, be my mentor, my _friend,_ and I will make you the happiest, _proudest_ woman alive—”

She smiled, almost in jest. “Aren’t you a bit young?”

“People say I’m _very_ mature for my age—” he replied, somewhat deflated.

 _That sounds familiar,_ she mused to herself, recalling her time at boarding school and beyond. _Wise beyond her years. Smart. Sensible. Level-headed._ “College kid, right?”

A shadowed expression clouded his visage for the briefest of moments, before resuming his steadfast nature. “Sort of. It’s complicated—” He cleared his throat, as Macy detected— _a trace of a tear?—_ she wasn’t sure, as he abruptly changed the subject. “So, where are you from…?” _What’s your name?_

“ _Macy—_ the name’s Macy—”

“Right. _Macy._ ” Her name seemed easy enough to remember, two syllables, and sounded oddly familiar too. _Something about a trio he’d heard of in passing. An older man too, gifted in martial arts—and was he—Norwegian? Australian?_ It slipped his mind. _Someplace with accented English._

She pondered how to best answer. _Where could she even begin?_ Between her brief one year and eleven months situated in Vera Manor (Michigan), and the rest of her childhood in Pennsylvania, then upstate for boarding school, and New York City besides—

_Where was she from?_

Could she say, in all truthfulness, that she was from Hilltowne, if she barely remembered living there in the beginning? Could she claim hold of Philadelphia, knowing that the only reason she and her father were there were because of a longstanding agreement, bridging this world and the next, from where she was revived? Reaching for her glass, she took a long sip.

“It-It’s complicated—” she finally managed to say. _Clearly, this conversation was at a standstill. Still, one more question couldn’t hurt, right?_ “What’s your major?”

He opened his mouth as if to speak, but paused, almost as if he were rethinking his answer, at last replying. “Music. Music and microbiology. I’m a double major.” He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, then opened them again, staring at his lap then out toward the country horizon as if trying to banish whatever memory laid within of his areas of study. “Or…I _was._ Sorry—” he paused, glancing back at Macy. “It’s—”

“—Complicated,” she finished his sentence as they both had a laugh.

Several minutes passed as they drained their glasses, nibbling on various eatables passed throughout—for Macy, slices of golden Emilia Romagna pear and indigo morsels of freshly-picked Tarantella fig, their centers the color of sun-kissed sangria. Antonio opted for crostini, topped with ripened aged Gorgonzola blue cheese, causing Macy’s nose to wrinkle slightly.

“Not a fan?” he took another bite of his crostini, which was, essentially, a thin slice of baguette bread, toasted to absolute perfection.

Macy shook her head. “That, and dairy allergies.” Harry, she recalled, never once allowed _fromage bleu_ into Vera Manor, calling it a “culinary abomination.” Of course, here _she_ was, after _his_ abominable behavior—and the question entering her mind was such: was it better to have Harry, a fallible creature who historically catered everything to her, _for_ her, or seek out friendship with Antonio, whose culinary preferences left much to be desired? _But Harry kissed Abigael. He kissed her. Not you. He chose her. Not you. He—_

“Duly noted,” Antonio stared deeply into Macy’s eyes, interrupting her inward diatribe.

_Dorm, Palazzo, Siena, Italy, Simulation Crystal_

After a quick walk around the courtyard, scenery melted once more, as the pair found themselves back in their shared dorm room, surrounded by its familiar nondescript tan walls.

“What now?” asked Antonio.

“Well…” Macy paused, recalling her time abroad. “If this matches prior lived experience, I’d say…we need to go shopping for school supplies—”

“Like, crayons and colored pencils?” he replied, puzzled.

She laughed. “I mean, printer paper. Ink cartridges. Maybe some blank music manuscript pages? The local shops create some good parchment—”

“Ok, sure—sounds good.” And with that, the ecru flooring fell away, as they found themselves thrown into an unfamiliar _galleria,_ unaware that in that very moment, a metallic music stand had materialized out of thin air, beside Antonio’s bed.

_Passatino Galleria, Siena, Italy, Simulation Crystal_

Her Milanese boots clattered a short while later upon striated checkerboard marble flooring, Antonio following suit. On either side of them were cheerful glowing glass storefronts resembling a department store’s interior, juxtaposed with Shambles Street in York, England, with its cozy shop fronts displaying specialized wares.

An imitation frost lined the floor, a wintry sort of décor, as Macy glanced upward, taking note of crimson baubles hanging from the covered ceiling, adorned here and there with tastefully crafted skylights to allow in nature’s sunlight. The hallway of storefronts, they noticed, seemed to extend interminably, its center peppered with boxed plants—spruce saplings, she guessed. _Christmas in Italy? Fascinating…_

“Where to?” Antonio appeared at her side.

“Ummm….” Her voice trailed off, uncertain. _Straight? Left? Right?_ When, all of a sudden, she spotted several stores away to their right, a music manuscript store. “How about we start there?”

“Ok, boss—”

Macy couldn’t help but feel flattered. She’d never been called “boss” before, despite her doctoral degree and a quarter of her life spent toiling away, one windowless laboratory after another, making genetic discoveries her older, predominantly male, supervisors took credit for. _Truth be told, it felt—good._

_Passatino Galleria, Siena, Italy, Simulation Crystal_

After finding her printer paper and ink, plus Antonio’s blank music pages ( _half a ream, two hundred fifty sheets total_ ), they continued to walk and window shop, himself toting the entire lot within a biodegradable bag provided free of charge. On his music pages, Macy had noticed five uniform lines, written over and over, page upon page, empty, awaiting for assignment to treble clef or bass clef, sharps or flats, time signature, but most of all—

_Awaiting a composer._

_A bringer of song._

Someone to unite harmonies in symphonic bliss—to interweave major and minor thirds, cacophony and euphony, chord progressions and more. _Why had she given up majoring in music again?_

_Oh right—Dexter—_

She stopped abruptly in her tracks, Antonio swerving to her left to avoid colliding with her. Her mind’s eye flew to the moment her father had been diagnosed with terminal cancer, when she was smack dab in the middle of deciding for the umpteenth time, whether it was chemistry, literature, or music she wanted to pursue for the rest of her life. _A decision not to be made lightly._ But how could people trust someone so young to make such a potentially life-altering decision?

If she remembered right, she could barely decide what brand of toothpaste to buy at the drugstore. How in the name of _everything_ was she expected to choose _one_ path? _Forever?_

_But then came Dexter’s prognosis._

And in that moment, she finally decided her course of action—the science field. Partly to satisfy her educational curiosity, and partly, if she were honest with herself, to please her father in his last days _and_ hope by some miracle she could discover a cure for cancer— _his_ cancer—before he passed.

_She had been so naïve back then._

Of course, reality was…what it _was._ She never found a cure, _nobody_ had, Dexter no longer walked the earth, and all hope for happiness had become pinned on a man who came into her life, who’d tied her and her sisters to attic chairs, referring to molecular genetics as “molecular witch-etics.” _A certain impeccably-dressed European Whitelighter, who always seemed to know right from wrong, and a cure for every known ailment—_

 _But he couldn’t cure_ this.

 _To make matters worse, she had trusted him to do the right thing._ The _expected_ thing—if she had read his mind correctly. And he failed, miserably. Or, to counter that point, what if he _had_ made the right decision in whatever twisted universe they lived, and she, Macy Vaughn, as a Charmed One, was fated— _cursed,_ even—to remain forever broken, bereft of affection?

 _I love you Macy, I always will—_ his inward voice echoed in the swirled black amber ether—

Choking back a sob, she instantly found herself in Antonio’s embrace. “I-I’m sorry…” she murmured as she attempted to wipe a tear, though more came in its place.

He reached in his pocket, pulling out tissues, dabbing her cheeks one direction, then another as she attempted to steady her breath. “ _Hey.”_ He smoothed her curls, his eyes meeting hers. “It’s _ok._ No need to apologize—” She imagined, in this moment, what it would have been like to grow up with siblings—a younger brother maybe, offering kind words after she arrived home sobbing, post-boyfriend spat.

She had, until now, largely borne her sorrows alone, surrounded by the sounds of a shower faucet to drown her cries, or elsewhere, the solitary shadows of night masking her visage.

Some minutes passed as Macy’s tears dissipated, nearly as quick as they had come. 

“It’s ok, I’m not a fan of Christmas in July either,” Antonio attempted a joke, to which Macy managed a chuckle.

“Thanks—I think I was due for a good cry,” she muttered, still somewhat embarrassed at her emotional outburst. “It’s not—” she inhaled, and exhaled again, “—the décor—it’s the memories they dislodge—my late dad, Dexter.”

“I’m sorry for your loss—” he began.

“Appreciated. It happened when I was in college,” she then added quickly upon seeing his immediate sympathetic expression, “it was fast and painless. Made me want to go into science.”

“To find a cure? For cancer?”

Macy blinked hard, staring down at the marble floor, then back at Antonio. “That obvious, huh? I was really naïve—”

“No,” Antonio spoke softly. “I think that’s sweet— _really_ sweet. It reminds me of…” he paused, “…someone I care about. Or, cared about. _Deeply._ ” After pausing for a beat, noting Macy’s questioning gaze, he went on. “Her name’s Laila, and she was my world.”


	5. Of Music and Memories

5 Of Music and Memories

_“…This is the part where it seems it’s all ending…” -E.H. Hanson_

_Day 1, continued_

_Passatino Galleria, Siena, Italy, Simulation Crystal_

Macy blinked hard, staring down at the marble floor, then back at Antonio. “That obvious, huh? I was really naïve—”

“No,” Antonio spoke softly. “I think that’s sweet— _really_ sweet. It reminds me of…” he paused, “…someone I care about. Or, cared about. _Deeply._ ” After pausing for a beat, noting Macy’s questioning gaze, he went on. “Her name’s Laila, and she was my world.”

_Quartier Petit Champlain, Quebec, Canada, Simulation Crystal_

A swirl of smoke later, and the pair were standing in what appeared to be an ancient French-Canadian township. Macy glanced at her outerwear, noticing that she now wore a thick chestnut-hued woolen coat with faux fur inner lining, slacks, and ribbed turtleneck, in addition to her Milanese boots.

“Where _are_ we?” she exclaimed wonderingly, spotting three sand-hued brick buildings, one beside the other on her left, two glowing storefronts on her right, both with miniature holiday spruces decorating their entrance. Immediately ahead, she noticed a gloriously lit Christmas tree, fifteen or so feet tall, elaborately festooned with large shimmering baubles. And further up— _was that—?_

“A church—” Antonio answered, standing by her side in a jacket, slacks, and thick black scarf. Meeting Macy’s curious gaze, he continued. “Sometimes, I find it easier to _show_ than _tell_. Temporal manipulation. Only lasts minutes—I’m not exactly an expert—”

“It’s _awesome_ ,” breathed Macy as they trudged up the snowy hill; she could see the barest outline of a hanging snowflake lighting, attached to the furthest right-back corner of the little _religieuse_.

_Church, Quartier Petit Champlain, Quebec, Canada, Simulation Crystal_

Dusting off their jackets, they entered the serene enclave, opting to sit at the furthest back pew, one of countless identical ones. _Cedar,_ she guessed, based on the faint crimson hue.

“This is where Laila and I met. The Quebec Winter Regional Music Festival.”

Macy gave him a puzzled look. Generally, whenever she thought “music festival,” she thought Woodstock or… _Coachella? Lollapalooza? Glastonbury?_ As if reading her thoughts, Antonio chuckled.

“It wasn’t Bonnaroo. More… _nerd camp._ ”

 _Right._ Macy could understand nerd camp—after all, she’d spent her entire middle and high school years spirited away to boarding school for high achievers. If _that_ wasn’t nerd camp… _well._

They could hear a pair of voices in the ether up front, toward the piano and towering organ pipes, possibly belonging to a pair of teens. _Maybe around age seventeen. Old enough to have adventures, but too young to fund them._ Macy realized with a shock that this was ‘young Antonio’ and ‘young Laila.’

Young Antonio plunked away at the piano keys, playing a recognizable Christmas carol in a very talented manner, though his dejected expression showed his abject reluctance—a symptom, Macy guessed, of helicopter parents who indoctrinated him in the arts at an extremely early age, deciding his wants and dreams for himself.

“Your heart’s not in it—” the female, young Laila, piped up, who had been watching from behind a pillar.

The music stopped, as he turned in the direction of the unexpected voice. “And you’d know a thing or two about it because…?”

“I’ve heard you sing,” she answered. “The choir director’s nuts, he should’ve given _you_ the solo—”

“But he didn’t—he wanted a pianist on the cheap—” he answered curtly, swiveling back to play the next verse—

“ _He should have.”_ Again, his fingers paused.

“What d’ _you_ know about music?” Realizing his words came out harsher than intended, he backtracked. “Sorry—long day—I’m Tony—what’s your name?”

She smiled. “ _Laila._ My name’s Laila.”

_Bonhomme Winter Carnival, Quartier Petit Champlain, Quebec, Canada, Simulation Crystal_

The scenery swirled beneath Macy and Antonio’s feet as they landed nearest the snowflake lighting, just in time for the Bonhomme Winter Carnival, which was in full swing.

“I never received the solo, but I got her heart instead. Best Christmas ever,” Antonio remarked, arms perched on an ice rink railing as they gazed toward the young earlier-mentioned couple, now ice skating and laughing as they swung each other around gently, gliding above the pristine smooth-shaven ice.

_German Winter Market, Quebec, Canada, Simulation Crystal_

Again, the vignette switched, and this time, Macy and Antonio found themselves in a winter market, _maybe a year later,_ trailing behind a pair of blushing teens, talking excitedly, their cheeks warmed with the promise of young love. _Young Tony and Laila._ If it weren’t for the three towering city buildings in the foreground— _banks_ —Macy guessed, she wouldn’t have known they were in Canada. They could have been in Germany, in Central Europe’s finest holiday surroundings, and she would not have known the difference. A Christmas tree decorated with recent snowfall and trailing crimson ribbon rested against a timber Christmas market stall, each of its several booths’ roofs festooned with festive boughs.

Overhead, she noticed interconnected string lights, veritable glowing pearlescent bulbs, that created illumination in a world of cold and darkness. And above each booth, a many-pointed glass star lantern, in crimson and white stripes. She began counting— _how many points were there? Ten? Eleven? No, maybe twelve—_ as they made for the nearest picnic bench. Joyful cries of children _oohing_ and _aaahing_ at cookies and candies intermingled with merchants shouting their wares, and Tony and Laila, discussing her desire to become his vocals coach, since she planned on pursuing a music education career at university.

“You two seem— _seemed—_ really happy,” she remarked after a bit, watching the pair draw pictures of holly wreaths to decorate the nearby communal bulletin board, as the young couple sipped a shared cup of piping hot apple cider. “What happened?”

A tear fell down his cheek, then another. “ _Leukemia_ ,” he answered, an uncharacteristic bitterness entering his voice. “Leukemia’s what happened.”

_Dorm, Palazzo, Siena, Italy, Simulation Crystal_

Their surroundings switched yet again, back to the familiar tan walls of their dorm, Mediterranean cypress and all. Antonio threw the canvas bag on his bed, the sheer weight causing the mattress to reverberate ever so slightly as Macy observed a metallic music stand she hadn’t noticed before, running her fingers down its spine, determining for herself whether it was indeed real. Her digits met solid steel, hammered and molded into a guiding tool.

_Yup, definitely real._

Tucking a stray mahogany curl behind her ear, she turned to Antonio, who began tearing open the ream of music manuscript paper with a certain ferocity.

“Antonio, I’m sorry—” she placed a hand upon his shoulder apologetically, half expecting him to flinch, surprised when he didn’t. “I mean—you don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to—"

He waved her words away. “I don’t want to, but…I _need_ to.” He separated the ream of blank music paper into five separate piles— _why five?_ Macy wondered—before turning a bolt on the music stand’s side so that it was level with his standing height. “Nobody remembers her as she was…least of all, _her—_ ”

Macy tilted her head, intrigued. “Not to be weird, but leukemia isn’t Alzheimer’s…”

“With ‘Knansie-with-a-K,’ it might as well have been.”

Her insides froze upon hearing the necromancer’s name.

_Knansie the necromancer._

_How many lives have you ripped apart, Knansie?_

_How many in total?_


	6. Long Ago in Laval

6 Long Ago in Laval

_“…Where the color is ripped from the skies…” -E.H. Hanson_

_Day 1 to Day 2_

_Dorm, Palazzo, Siena, Italy, Simulation Crystal_

“Nobody remembers her as she was…least of all, _her—_ ”

Macy tilted her head, intrigued. “Not to be weird, but leukemia isn’t Alzheimer’s…”

“With ‘Knansie-with-a-K,’ it might as well have been.”

Her insides froze upon hearing the necromancer’s name, her latent fury at the underworldly woman causing spare bits of parchment to flutter, the music stand to vibrate—

 _You,_ she thought. _Knansie. I should’ve known—_

_Flashback_

_Tears. She remembered tears. Silver slivered moon rivulets coursing down her cheekbones, hands stumbling, bracing for impact, for coarse burnt sienna brick, as her subconscious melded with the nightmare before her—was it not enough to lose her mother, her father too? Dealing in things unnatural had consequences—_

_She would know._

_She was—_

_Unnatural._

_Lonely and unnatural._

_And after seeing—witnessing—that sordid scene—unlovable too._

Her labored breath emanated forth in shuddered gasps, and now it was Antonio’s turn to offer comfort, drawing her close with an outstretched arm. _Shhhh. It’s ok. I’m here. I’m here. I’m here._ “I take it you’re not on the best of terms?” he asked, as she adamantly shook her head. _A definite no._

“I’m sorry,” she said after some time had passed. “Compared to what you left reality for, mine pales in comparison—”

“Having different problems doesn’t make the pain matter less. This isn’t a competition,” replied Antonio matter-of-factly.

More minutes passed, but neither she nor he kept track. “You know what I said earlier? About you looking young?” Macy lifted her gaze. “I take that back. You’re _definitely_ an old soul,” as he managed to suppress the barest hint of a smile. “And I can’t make this about _me_ —what about _you?_ And _Laila?”_ Her hands fidgeted out of sheer habit. “I mean,” she added, “if you’re ready to talk about it—”

He sucked his breath in sharply. _Laila._ It had been ages since he’d heard that name uttered by someone else other than him. “I’m ready,” he answered, as their world-weary eyes met. “And no visual flashbacks—some memories are…not worth reliving. If you get my drift—” as Macy nodded in understanding.

Closing his eyes, Antonio imagined where they had last left off. _The German Christmas Market. Quebec, Canada._ “We were together for a year. Both starry-eyed, you know, like Nicholas Sparks novels. But one day, she ended up in the hospital.”

He opened his eyes, checking to see if he wasn’t trapped in the life-altering past once more, and finding he was still in Siena, _still_ in Italy, blinked rapidly, then shut them again, as Macy rubbed his back as only a big sister could. “On her nineteenth birthday. Talk about true holiday shi—”

“Yeah,” Macy murmured, thinking of the jingle hell she’d endured that first Christmas with her newfound siblings. Maggie had received an ill-gotten necklace from her half-demon ex, a broken legged Galvin made a surprise stop, Ray absconded his fatherly duties _again_ , and Harry ended up trapped in Tartarus. Maybe it was the pressure to put on a happy face in a despairing world. Or too much family in one place, with exhaustion and high emotional tension besides. _Whatever it was, she, Macy Vaughn, was very familiar with that sub-category known as ‘terrible holidays,’ each awful in their own horrifying way._

“Then I noticed she stopped coming to class. Usually, treatment was pills—modern medicine, targeted therapy— _the works_ —with weekend hospital visits for monitoring. When she didn’t show up to improvisational contemporary— _the class_ —I knew. _I knew.”_

“That it was bad?” He nodded.

“Worse than _bad._ ” Inhaling deeply, he continued. “Her body stopped responding to meds—they switched her over to IVs—”

Deep concern was etched all over Macy’s visage. As a geneticist, she understood that when top-of-the-line gene therapies failed, there wasn’t much hope for survival.

“I always thought,” he stated with an ironic laugh, “that she’d outlive _me._ That we’d grow old together, and she’d survive me by a decade with her music and bright persona. I thought…” his head was in his hands at this point, “I thought we’d have… _forever.”_

Macy mulled his account over, wondering what she would do in such a situation. But then she knew, recalling how Harry had suddenly aged, a punishment from above, his smooth skin turning to elephantine creases, interlaced here and there with wrinkles, his energetic will giving way to soporific tea-time. How she took his porcelain teacup from his drooping lap before it met the carpeted floor. How she had glanced at his visage and thought, back then, how sweet he looked and how wonderful it would be if one day, _some_ day— _but no._

_Not today._

_Not ever._

Glancing over at Antonio, she reflected on the irony of the situation. His lover was critically ill and they cherished each other, wanting to spend _forevers_ together—and here _she_ was, fleeing a man who had made a catastrophic error in judgment, but who, by all intents and purposes, was perfectly healthy, and immortal besides.

“On her last night…I-I was—” she turned toward Antonio, hearing him begin to speak again. He stopped, then resumed. “That night…I had a solo. “Oh Holy Night.” Latin. Part of Laval University’s Christmas concert.”

Macy read between the lines. “She wasn’t there.” _A statement, not a question._

“I meant to tell her about it after, give her a solo performance. I showed up at the hospital, but—” his voice caught, unable to continue. Macy understood the implication. _It was too late. She was—_

 _“_ Gone?” she voiced the word aloud.

It took some time before he could respond, which he did with a curt nod of his chin. “I was arrogant, smarmy, pig-headed, stubborn _—let me finish_!” he said as Macy tried to interrupt. “ _Seriously,_ I was. Then, I met her. I became a better person. Kinder, more patient, so they said.” He lifted his head from his hands. “When I grew up, I was a terror. Nobody took a chance on me. _Nobody believed in me._ The only reason the choir director took me on was a drunken bar crawl bet he’d made with the sports coach—everyone had a field day about _that_. But Laila—she believed in me. No clue why, but she did.” 

“She sounds pretty amazing,” murmured Macy.

“Yeah…yeah she was.”

_Day 2, Command Center, SafeSpace, Seattle, Washington_

_Where on earth was Macy?_ Harry wondered, his eyes skimming the leader board and the other dimly lit surroundings. _This just wasn’t like her at all._ But then again, she _had_ been growing cozy with a certain man by the name of Julian. _That must be it. Julian. Of course she’s with Julian—_

Most likely, she was out soothing her feelings from the earlier day’s palpable tension, himself annoyed she was unable to talk things out, given they were both proper adults of a suitable age. Bickering openly to come to some semblance of agreement would be preferable to those awkward silences, those heady glares he had noticed in days past. Deep down, he knew it was partly his fault, as he himself had skirted the truth that hit him in the face the first time he laid eyes on the melanin beauty that was her—his smart, sultry partner-in-crime, his petulant angel.

He paused, hearing the familiar buzz of Macy’s phone, his ears attuned to the very sound. Following the device’s echoes, he traversed the iron stairs to the balcony lookout, as his toe hit a smooth, flattened object—

 _Macy’s phone—_ lying carelessly by the hidden brick entrance.

_But where was Macy?_


	7. Altered Amnesiac Renderings

7 Altered Amnesiac Renderings

_“…This is the madness before all the mending…” -E.H. Hanson_

_Day 2, Command Center, SafeSpace, Seattle, Washington_

_Macy’s phone—_ lying carelessly by the hidden brick entrance.

_But where was Macy?_

He felt his pocket buzz a second later. _Julian?_ His mouth puckered into a sour expression. _What on earth?_ Sighing, he retrieved the device reluctantly, swiping up to receive the young gent’s call.

“ _Julian,_ speak of the devil…” Harry made an attempt at cordiality. It was, he knew, a complete farce, for he silently resented the man’s removal of the one source of utter happiness in his quiet (and oftentimes _lonely_ ) life.

“Say, um…Larry—”

The Brit winced. _Americans and their awful propensity for recall. That, or Julian was trolling him._ “Actually, it’s Harry—”

“Um, yeah—” The goateed man sounded vaguely out of breath. “Macy—” he stopped short.

“Macy…?”

“You haven’t seen her around, have you?”

“What do you mean?” Harry felt a sudden chill creep from the back of his neck, emanating waves of undulating tension through his shoulders, extending toward his spine.

“Haven’t seen her since she left SafeSpace a few days ago. If you see her, lemme know?”

“Well—” Before Harry could formulate a coherent response, Julian hung up, resulting in a blaring dial tone on the other end. Kneading his chestnut hair, he frowned, realizing he hadn’t seen her since…however many days ago he’d made the piping hot blueberry muffins, set with a pat of vegan butter, a recipe specifically tailored to her. No matter the amount of palpable tension, he always wished to see her nourished and of sound mind to defeat evil, the first day, the second, and the day after that.

_She hadn’t once called for him._

_He hadn’t noticed—until now._

_A wave of horror hit him. He, Harry Greenwood, had neglected his oldest charge._

Orbing to the main Command Center table, filled with scientific journal articles dutifully printed by Macy, various bits of Sumerian text and Sanskrit writings, he swept the lot off the solid surface in one fell motion, cursing in frustration, before sinking to the cold concrete floor moments later, silently berating himself, murmuring Macy’s name all the while. _Macy. Macy. Macy—_

_Macy, love, where are you?_

_Please—tell me where you are._

The empty void of cavernous, gaping silence met his finely-tuned Whitelighter ears.

And thus, the search for Dr. Macy Vaughn began.

_Dorm, Palazzo, Siena, Italy, Simulation Crystal_

“She sounds pretty amazing,” murmured Macy.

“Yeah…yeah she was.” He then moved to fold the music stand into his canvas bag, along with one of the five piles of blank music manuscript paper. “Can we go for a walk? I could really use fresh air, if we’re talking about _this—”_

Macy agreed. “I think I know _just_ the place—" as the two departed through the front door, Macy shutting it using her telekinesis, which she was secretly pleased to have still retained in this particular juncture of her chaotic life.

_Il Campo to Via Salicotto, En Route to Teatro dei Rinnovati, Siena, Italy_

“I guess, for context, I should mention my mom—” Antonio began again, Macy tilting her head in befuddlement. “She grew up seeing a lot of tragedy—a lot of violence—alcoholism—repressed feelings that turned into terrible things. I think she was scared—that the same things she saw would happen to me—that tragedy would unravel me, my future—”

Her eyes softened. “She was trying to protect you?”

“In her own way.” They passed the vaguely medieval-style Museo Civico on their right along with the familiar clock tower Macy recognized, the Comune di Siena. “There I was, kneeling bedside… _her_ bedside, at the hospital. _Laila’s._ Wishing the guy upstairs could just breathe _life_ into her again—willing to do anything, _anything,_ to see her eyes open, to hear her laugh again, to see that smile—”

She, too, was familiar with this feeling, watching her own father languish in a hospital bed from a terminal condition. But he’d had a full life in his own way—and Laila had not. “Then what happened?”

He inhaled sharply as they passed the joyful bits of laughter filtering from the open town square to their left. “I felt a hand on my shoulder. ‘What if she were alive?’ she said—”

Macy frowned. “Your mom?”

“She said some weird…things that didn’t make sense. ‘What if she were alive, but elsewhere—what if she could be saved—and this were a condition—would you do it? Is that the price you’d pay?’”

 _Oh no—_ she glanced at Antonio, who nodded. She had a very bad feeling about this.

“She checked whether all the nurses were gone, the medical staff, then hissed at me to ask for ‘Knansie with a K, five times’—I was all— _seriously?_ And she stared at me, and said—‘just _do_ it’— _”_

“And you did…”

Hoisting the canvas bag to his other shoulder, the pair passed the gray-lined, griffin-adorned stone Cappella di Piazza monument, nearing their destination. “I had nothing to lose. So…yeah. Five times.”

“And she showed up…”

“Not exactly—I mean, first, the hospital bed—and _Laila_ —disappeared, and there I was, sitting in a wood chair, surrounded by thousands of pink hydrangeas—”

“ _Hydrangeas?”_

His expression turned a bit bashful. “They were Laila’s favorite flower.”

“Oh. Right—”

“And I was freaking out, I mean, my girlfriend’s dead— _gone—_ and suddenly I’m _hallucinating—”_

“But you weren’t—”

“I thought I was. And then, I heard a cheery voice ask if I was ready to give my all. I turned around to find a blond lady with a grocery store nametag. Knansie, in the flesh.”

_Hallway, Teatro dei Rinnovati, Siena, Italy_

They found themselves in an airy hallway with plush crimson carpet as the conversation continued. “Sometimes,” he spoke, slower this time, “sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened if—if I hadn’t—” he stopped, pausing where he stood, as Macy doubled back to where he was.

“Let’s sit over there,” she motioned. It was best, she thought, to get everything out in the open—to know Antonio more—before commencing the musical training she had in store for him nearly a room away.

_Hallway Outside Theater, Teatro dei Rinnovati, Siena, Italy_

“You loved her more than life itself, Antonio. There’s certainly something to be said about that—” as they sat upon a set of velvet-lined stairs leading to an ornately-designed doorway. “And my mom was just like your mom, wanting the best for you.”

“Did _she_ summon Knansie?” Antonio couldn’t help but ask, hardly imagining anyone would have been in such a precarious position as him and his prior beloved.

A minute passed, then another. “As a matter of fact… _yes,_ she did—and it’s thanks to her I’m alive today.”

A wave of— _pity or empathy?_ —lined Antonio’s visage. “And you never saw your mom again?”

She shook her head. “Not since before I turned two. Knansie’s rules. I had a great dad who fulfilled both parent roles, but…it wasn’t easy. He only saw her once or twice more—which is how my sister was conceived—” Antonio threw her a _TMI_ look, and the two burst out laughing despite the utter tragedy of it all.

“That sounds like the subplot of every Telenovela—” he shook his head, barely suppressing a grin, which then turned to a more somber expression seconds later. “I can’t imagine growing up without my mom—”

“I didn’t know what I was missing out on, most of the time,” she interjected. “I mean, sure, it was a lot of times, lonely and isolating, but most of the other times, my dad was…just like any other single parent dad. Motivated me. Pushed me to excel. And he was a great parent when I needed one.”

“Sounds like it,” Antonio replied. “Must’ve been hell for your mom, though.”

“Yeah, I think—I think it was,” she recalled that moment of horror, back in college, once she realized she had shot flames from her hand, setting a guy’s shirt on fire. _Marisol to the rescue, hidden behind an opaque linen curtain to avoid certain death—_

She paused, staring at the plaster crown molding of the ceiling’s outermost edges, blinking hard. “I realize that now. Back then, I thought she died. Then I found out she hadn’t, and she’d had more kids that stayed with her—that she raised—spent decades with—and I felt… _abandoned._ Abandoned and _unloved._ ”

“If what I went through is anything like your mom’s experience,” Antonio remarked, “I think she loved you more than _life_ itself. She really moved mountains for you—”

“I know. And sometimes, I feel guilty—guilty that I had childhood resentment, thinking she didn’t love me enough to keep me, then realizing what she gave up. Guilty that I destroyed my parents’ marriage—her love life— _her_ happiness—”

“But you were just a baby—”

She swallowed hard. “I know. Believe me _, I know.”_

_Theater, Teatro dei Rinnovati, Siena, Italy_

They resumed their journey, canvas bag in hand, opening the ornate door to tunneled darkness amid a slow-sloping floor of what felt like carpeted velvet beneath their feet. Down and down they went, until Macy’s booted toe collided with what felt like another staircase. _Likely the stage stairs._ Grabbing Antonio’s arm, she motioned him forward as they ascended, finding themselves on smooth, solid flooring.

Perhaps it was the darkness—or a mere continuation of their earlier discussion—that Antonio chose to resume his tale. “We were given a year,” he said softly, his voice echoing into what Macy imagined were the rafters of this cavernous space. “A year of pure happiness. A _miracle,_ some called it. The joys of modern medicine, others said. But my mom and I knew the truth. What kept Laila alive.”

“And what kept her alive?” Macy asked, almost certain she knew the answer to this question.

“‘ _Other_ ’ blood. Not _human—”_ as he drew a sigh. “That, and…once the year was up, she and I would be polarized magnets. Wherever I was on earth, she would be on the exact opposite end. And amnesia.”

 _Wow. Permanent separation. Harsh. But why not the same fate as her and her mother?_ “Not to be crass, but that sounds different from ‘certain death,’” observed Macy. “Why did Knansie…”

He gave an empty half-chuckle, sorrow bubbling to the surface. “I was a minor. She had too many ‘Romeo and Juliet’ situations and had to insert a contract clause. Weird technicality.”

“I’m sorry…” Macy patted his shoulder.

“Don’t be—I’m alive, and so’s she. That’s all I could ask for.” He felt his way blindly through the dark. _Where was he?_

“It can’t have been easy…”

“At first, it was. We had three hundred and sixty-five days together. Ate Chinese food from the carton while watching Netflix as the snow fell. Went hiking up Big Sur in the spring. Revisited the ancient Quebec town we met, during the summer season. Took photos at the ice sculptures once late November hit. Fell asleep in each other’s arms—moved in together, _the works_. But one day…”

“One day…?”

He resumed speaking. “I woke up and found myself all alone in my childhood bedroom. The apartment—our history— _gone. Rewritten._ And I _knew—”_ he brushed away the silent tears that appeared upon his cheeks. “ _I knew it was over,”_ he ended in a whisper.

_Flashback_

_She drifted to sleep in his sturdy, sun-tanned arms, in one of the many evenings she appreciated so much in which the moon shone through their shared apartment’s window, the stars twinkling in silent reverie, vaguely aware that her bodily survival had mysteriously defied the laws of nature._

_The stark, stainless steel hospital bed was all she remembered, the smell of rubbing alcohol prickling at her nose each time the nurses stepped in with more treatments which soon gave way to comfortable “palliative” care. Everyone had given up. The fight was over—her eyes slowly shutting as she found herself, once more, at Laval University’s music department, going up two elevator floors of its glass-enclosed frame to her specially-reserved practice room._

_Or so she thought._

_Instead, that particular evening, the elevator opened up to an arcade, its flashy lighting positively blinding as she drew on, growing increasingly panicked, realizing she held in one hand two stacked rectangular musical instrument cases on wheels. Rather than her practice room, she arrived at an airplane terminal that appeared to the casual onlooker, to be sponsored by big name corporate giants. Another blink of the eye later, and she was sharing a tram with a family practicing what appeared to be Thai ceremonial dances. Somehow, her feet knew where she was headed, but she herself did not._

_A layover in Melbourne took her to an outdoor café, Christmas stringed lights decorating the awning, a festive fifteen-foot tree ribboned in electronically-savvy garlands as she proceeded to order a flat white, a soup, and a salad, noticing she was the only patron at this lonely, forgotten hour._

_Fingering her triquetra necklace, a gift from her late great-aunt, her namesake, Laila Young, she sensed something was not quite right._

_Something—or someone—was missing._


	8. All the World's a Stage

8 All the World’s a Stage

_“…The darkness before the sun’s rise…” -E.H. Hanson_

_Day 2, continued_

_Theater, Teatro dei Rinnovati, Siena, Italy_

“I woke up and found myself all alone in my childhood bedroom. The apartment—our history— _gone. Rewritten._ And I _knew—”_ he brushed away the silent tears that appeared upon his cheeks. “ _I knew it was over,”_ he ended in a whisper.

_Command Center, SafeSpace, Seattle, Washington_

Slumped over, parchment astray, was how the youngest Charmed One found a certain Whitelighter. “Omigawd, _Harry!”_ she entered from the hidden brick entrance, shocked at the scene below her. Rapidly descending the stairs, she silently assessed the damage. Bits of printed out scientific journal papers were strewn about, but luckily— _luckily,_ Harry appeared uninjured but for whatever was plaguing his inner psyche.

“ _Talk to me, Harry,”_ she knelt by his side, her fingers pressed gently over his pressure points to glean his emotional temperature. “What—” Her own body gave an involuntary jolt as intense feelings of— _yearning, regret, sorrow, loss—_ washed over her, “ _—_ happened _?”_ she ended in a whisper, knowing something terrible, something _awful,_ had taken place.

“I’d prefer not to discuss—” Harry attempted a stiff upper lip, as Maggie pulled his arm upward until he was in a standing position.

“ _No.”_ Maggie was just as stubborn. “You’ve been pining. _Again._ ” After a momentary pause, she fixed her doe-like eyes upon his own. “It’s Macy, isn’t it?”

Rather than speak, he offered his arm and she took it, as he orbed themselves to the top of the Command Center’s balcony overlook, some several hundred feet away. “Harry—we’re still in—”

“I know.” He pointed to the smooth, flat object situated inches from their feet—

“Is _that—” Macy’s phone?_ Maggie knew her oldest sister. Macy, if she could help it, was never, _ever_ without her phone. Which meant—she stopped. “But…if the phone’s _here—_ and— _but—wh—where’s Macy?”_

“I-I don’t know—” Harry groaned, massaging his temple, staring skyward and blinking rapidly before meeting Maggie’s steady look.

“Let me try something—”

“Of course, _anything—”_ replied Harry, hopeful that his youngest charge would develop a quick resolution. _It was possible, right? That perhaps this was all a misunderstanding—that Macy had just gone on a quick trip somewhere—_ but no. Macy _never_ went on frivolous trips. _Ever—_

“Hold my hands, Harry—”

“What _are_ you doing?” He regarded the young lady as she somehow began conjuring what appeared to be a vibrating purple energy ball, much like the one she had created prior to freeing him from Tartarus. “Is _that—?”_ He made to touch the elegant illuminated machination, but she slapped him away.

“Hands. _Now,”_ she all but ordered, as he hastily complied.

_Inward Machinations of Energy Ball_

_The glow intensified, as Maggie and Harry found themselves in the very same Command Center. Mornings passed through to mid-day, mid-day to evening, as Macy could be seen toiling away at the table, experimenting with droplets of black amber. Scenery flashed forward, to Harry, accosted by Abigael—a kiss—just as Macy approached the balcony, her shy, flirtatious schoolgirl smile giving way to tears of disbelief—and horror. Harry, still holding Maggie’s hand, observing, gasped—Macy. Oh, sweet Macy, Macy, Macy._

_He wished to close his eyes and rid himself of his regrettable behavior—but Maggie poked him, still holding hands. Keep watching, she seemed to say, as then-Macy backed away, her cell phone slipping out of her tan coat pocket as she wound up in the adjoining brick room, the glimmer of his—_

_His—simulation crystal—caught his eye._

_Flecked with a tiny smudge of black, which he and Maggie knew could have only come from one identifiable source._

_Black amber._

_His heart ached as he heard her shattered soul’s murmurings._

_‘Help me escape—’_

_‘Help me escape.’_

_Command Center, SafeSpace, Seattle, Washington_

The holographic scenery faded to present, as Harry suddenly had the wind nearly knocked out of him by Maggie, who threw a wrestler’s blow to his solar plexus— _“OW!”_ He grimaced, massaging his ribs, and scowled at Maggie, herself staring him down with a steely glare. “ _Bloody—hell—_ what—on— _earth—_ was,” he breathed through his teeth, “ _that_ for—”

“ _You made Macy cry.”_ She added, as if in grim afterthought, “ _and_ you kissed Abigael. _Ugh.”_ She inwardly shuddered. “Not sure which one’s worse.”

“The worst mistakes of my life—how do I rectify them? Maggie, _please—_ help me—” Maggie had never seen this side of Harry—perfect, pristine older brother Harry—now the most disheveled she’d seen him, not including post-Tartarus. _But everyone’s human, and everyone makes mistakes._ She sighed, looking at the contrite man before her, recalling her own misguided error in trusting a half-demon ex who gifted her with a necklace laced to drain her powers. “Ugh, let’s go—downstairs— _now!”_

He followed in her formidable footsteps, down past the table to the cabinet of concoctions and spells. “You’re lucky Mel doesn’t know—”

“She’d kill me—”

“— _Yet_.” Maggie ended her sentence as Harry noticeably blanched. “Don’t worry, I’ll let her in on it once we find a way to Macy,” herself knowing the depth of Mel’s wrath when provoked. “Because we will, Harry. I just _know_ it.”

_Theater, Teatro dei Rinnovati, Siena, Italy_

And I _knew—”_ he brushed away the silent tears that appeared upon his cheeks. “ _I knew it was over,”_ he ended in a whisper.

“How long ago _was_ that?” Macy couldn’t help but ask, riveted by his moving story.

He counted the days and weeks. “Something like…eight weeks, five days, three hours, and twenty—no, wait— _twenty-one_ —minutes ago. And…now I’m a transfer student. I lost the few friends we had, since everything rewrote itself. There’s a purple and gold banner with a husky in my bedroom. Looks new. Guess it means I’m going to University of Washington—”

“Ooooh, that’s one of the top twenty universities in the _world!”_ Macy couldn’t help but exclaim. “Oh— _sorry._ My sisters think I lack a filter sometimes,” she said apologetically, noting his perturbed expression. “ _And_ an empathy quotient,” she added right after that.

“It’s ok. I know I need to heal and move on. I made a deal, y’know?” He glanced, in the dark, toward the direction of Macy’s voice.

“And a deal’s a deal—”

“Exactly.”

Several seconds passed before Macy broached a question that lingered on the edge of her tongue. “How _do_ you plan to move on?”

“By finding a cure for the type of cancer she had.”

“In the meantime, though?”

He paused. “Honestly, I never thought about it. Just head to Seattle as a transfer student. Try music and microbiology all over again—go through the motions. But I haven’t sung in awhile. To be honest, it’s not that I don’t _want_ to. It’s that…I don’t know if I _can.”_

“I think it’s time we found out, Antonio. Are you ok with that?”

He nodded, then spoke—they were both surrounded in darkness. “Y-yeah. I think…I think I’m ready.”

“Ok then,” she answered, and he detected the gentle aura of her smile from where he stood.

“Speaking of...where are we?” Antonio asked, as he heard Macy’s Milanese leather boots clacking away in the distance to what sounded like a switchboard of some sort. With a single swift motion, a reverberating _click_ was heard as Macy walked up beside him. “What—?”

“ _Shhh…_ watch!” With that, dazzling lights brightened the surface upon where they stood, at what he realized was the stage, as the brightness extended toward the stage’s stairs, to the matching hundred-foot-high sepia fern-printed pillars on either side, the balcony boxes—long, stately rows of booths far too numerous to count—glimmering a demure-yet-stately ivory with inlaid gold etchings. The plush maroon of the booths became visible, as did the main floor’s seating far beneath—fourteen rows on the left, fourteen on the right—with a center aisle for princes and princesses, kings and queens, barons and baronesses, once upon a time. Their gazes traveled north as the elegant chandelier was heaved upward, as if balanced on an invisible tightrope precariously swinging from side to side, its opulence for all the world to see, bulbs upon sunlit bulbs, brimming with a certain ostentatious glow, just as Macy had imagined from “Phantom of the Opera,” a musical she had seen with her father that one time they went to New York.

Intricate mural etchings emanated from the chandelier’s edges in a navy and gold pattern, much like the Byzantine architecture of yore, hearkening to the era of Justinian. _Triangles, four pairs each of them,_ Macy observed. _As in, power of three—but who was the fourth?_ Then she noticed the scalloped floral etching taking place along the perimeter—interior to each rounded curve was a glistening trophy, or a knightly crest of some sort.

At last, the design finished, and Macy turned to Antonio once more, a twinkle in her eye. “We’re in the main theater of the famed Teatro dei Rinnovati, in Siena, Italy. Welcome to your first music lesson.”

_Command Center, SafeSpace, Seattle, Washington_

A couple of hours had passed in near-silence as Harry and Maggie raced to find a solution, or potion, or… _something,_ to bring Macy back, before it finally occurred to her, as she stirred essence of fern, clover, peppermint, and one drop of black amber, studying the resulting effects. “ _Harry—”_ she began, as he orbed immediately beside her.

“Have you seen something?” She shook her head as he made to depart, deflated, to the other side of the room, to where he had been reading what appeared to be ancient user manuals on the history of crystals.

“ _Wait—_ I mean—” she swallowed hard. “If she went into the simulation crystal willingly, _holding_ the crystal, given what we already know—she can only leave—”

“—Of her own volition.” He mulled this over. _Of course. Prosser’s law of physics and particle witchology. Exertion of singular force in alternate dimensions equal opposing force therein._ “But how can I draw her back?”

“ _Earth to Harry!”_ Maggie made a mock head-smacking motion atop her own visage. _“_ Duh, by, y’know… _apologizing?_ ”

“Oh.” His cheeks turned a faint crimson. “R-roger that.”

_Theater, Teatro dei Rinnovati, Siena, Italy_

“Channel sadness and sorrow, anger and angst, musings of madness, into melodious music, pure power, and electric energy. For the next 10 seconds, scream—” Macy led Antonio through a guided quasi-musical meditation, combining her knowledge of _pranayamas_ and perfunctory sheet music. _Really?_ He raised an eyebrow, and she motioned him forward toward the centermost point of the ample stage.

He—and she—yelled, then Macy called time. “How do you feel?”

“Kind of… _cathartic._ ” She grinned.

“Progress. That’s a start. Now, vocal exercises—” which took the better part of fifteen minutes.

“What now?” Antonio asked after they had completed the chromatic scale.

“A demo. By yours truly.”

Closing her eyes, she imagined her deepest musical performance desire, from the innermost of her very soul, her slacks, turtleneck, and jacket transforming into a sleek silver-sequined, tasseled dress indicative of the roaring twenties’ Jazz era, but with an added intricate boho-chic patterned design down the curve of her spine.

_Command Center, SafeSpace, Seattle, Washington_

More hours passed, as Harry wiped the perspiration dotting his forehead. _How to send a hologram message to an alternate dimension—_ he had found the page rather serendipitously while nibbling half-heartedly at a turkey cranberry sauce sandwich Maggie had smuggled him from SafeSpace. “Can’t have you stuck there too, passed out from hunger,” she’d said, and much to his reluctance, Harry knew she was right. Endangering himself during a rescue mission was one more point toward _utter_ uselessness.

 _What were the ingredients?_ He skimmed the page again. _Hair of the messenger,_ check, he ruefully massaged his scalp, recalling the lack of scissors. _Just a couple hairs, but still. Tears of the wronged,_ check, which he had extracted in dried form from the screen of Macy’s phone, using finely-honed tweezers and a high-resolution microscope. _Solitary scrawl,_ the list continued—perhaps a sample of his penmanship would do, a letter to Macy.

Pen to paper, he rubbed his temple and sighed. This was a _most_ complicated affair. And he had only himself to blame.

_Theater, Teatro dei Rinnovati, Siena, Italy_

“My little pipe dream,” she murmured, mostly to herself, eyes still closed, “is to be a jazz singer—get to wear a fabulous dress, and jewels, and have one of those old microphones, and sing— _that_ would be amazing,” as she reopened her eyes, finding a sturdy retro Shure 55SH Series II Unidyne Cardioid Dynamic microphone, its metallic straight-ribbed sheen mere inches from her crimson lips.

Stroking her _cheveux,_ its gently shellacked texture flowing in elegant tresses about her sloping shoulders, she bit back a smile. There was no need to test _this_ microphone, for she knew, in this fantasy of hers, this phantasm _unique,_ it was already as perfect as it could possibly be.

With a snap of her fingers, she cradled the mic with her other hand, hearing the thrum of bass undertones reverberating beneath her kitten-heeled feet. _Maybe a saxophone, a trumpet at the refrain? I’ll make it up as I go—_ as her song began, a Melanija Paradis original:

_Deep down South in the blue Bayou,_

_Was a young girl, stayin’ with my Auntie Sue,_

_‘Darlin’ never chase a man,’ she said,_

_‘Make him seek you later instead’—_

The refrain soon followed, twice over, her lips now millimeters away from the microphone, crooning each and every one of the lyrics as if they were pure platinum, oblivious to a sudden flash of white light that had transpired within a maroon velvet boxed seating above.

_I was a baaaaaaaaaaad girl_

_I was a baaaad, baaaaaaad girl…_

The second stanza began, as she found herself awash in lavish, luxurious glittered gold and sumptuous light, the cellos and saxophones falling silent as she continued her jazz-ballad:

_Never once listened to my Auntie Sue,_

_Crept to his chamber one night, he didn’t have a clue._

_Shoulda, coulda listened to my sweet Aunt Sue,_

_Thought I was slick—but the demon was quick—_

Again the refrain, as the lone figure circled his seated area, eyes widening at the glorious figure below, a contemporary angel, a breathtaking beauty, Macy and Antonio oblivious, as the lighting had solely honed in upon the main occupant of the stage who was currently singing her sultry song. _The song of scorched love. A woman scorned. Oh, Macy. Macy, my love—_

_Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever find love,_

_Two peas in a pod, a pair of fitted gloves._

_One thing I know, travels, adventures anew,_

_I’ll always listen to my dear Auntie Suuuuuuuuuueeeee._

The theater fell silent, save for the young man’s enthusiastic applause down below—who on _earth_ was _he_? And therein was his cue. Whispering words indicative of welling emotion, his lettered envelope flew—sailed effortlessly through the chandeliered air, swooping and soaring in its descent, making its way toward the main stage—

And landed squarely at Macy’s feet.


	9. Retourner and Rose Quartz Crystals

9 Retourner and Rose Quartz Crystals

_“Take down all your troubles/And wrap up your regret…” -E.H. Hanson_

_Day 2, continued_

_Theater, Teatro dei Rinnovati, Siena, Italy_

The theater fell silent, save for the young man’s enthusiastic applause down below—who on _earth_ was _he_? And therein was his cue. Whispering words indicative of welling emotion, his lettered envelope flew—

And landed squarely at Macy’s feet.

At first, she didn’t notice the epistle, so silently it swept toward her feet, but a moment later, the tip of her heel brushed against the polished parchment, as she uttered the tiniest gasp of surprise—and _wonder. Who would write to her—here?_ She turned the weighted envelope around in her hands in the next minute, and the minute after that, until Antonio cleared his throat indelicately. “What _?”_ She turned toward him in askance.

“Aren’t you…?” He motioned toward the letter in her hands. _Going to open it?_

Antonio strode toward her. “It’s not everyday a person gets a letter in a fantasy realm—from the real world.”

“Meaning…?”

“Someone must miss you—a _lot.”_

Macy laughed ruefully, shaking her head, her mahogany tresses gliding about her scintillating silvery shoulders. “No. Nobody misses me at all—”

“Then why the letter?” To this, she turned silent, handing the item to him as he examined its exterior as well. “I think you have an admirer.” He handed it back to her, as she gave a start.

“An— _admirer?_ No—no _way—”_

“Honestly, I’d open it if I were you. For closure. Besides, letters don’t bite—right?”

“R-right,” answered Macy nervously, thinking back to her discovery of Marisol and Dexter’s decades-long communication by the very same method—reams upon _reams._ Perhaps would not bite in the physical sense, as she had a sudden, near-ludicrous vision of a sentient saber-toothed book, chomping furiously at the bit. But they could injure—emotionally—possibly _irreparably_ , she knew, recalling how Mel had distanced herself, perhaps subconsciously, from herself and Maggie, once she had discovered it was _she_ that was the half-sister, not Macy, even though Maggie’s hair and large, expressive eyes more resembled Mel’s own. _Genetics was,_ Macy understood, _a funny thing._

Sucking in her breath sharply, her tapered fingers unfurled the envelope’s backing; she tore it open as neatly as she could, noticing a freshly-drawn royal navy blue waxed seal adorned with the words “ _alba levi litterae.”_

_Alba levi litterae._

_What did that mean?_ She frowned, trying to recall whatever Latin she had picked up from boarding school. _Alba_ meant “white.” _Litterae_ meant…”literature?” No— _letter. What was levi?_ She brushed the thought aside, turning her attention to the letter itself that lay before her. At first observation, this display had been sensibly done with zero frills, just prim and proper elegance of the highest form of correspondence-writing, and the enigmatic index-card-sized stationery within too.

_Meet me in the dressing room._

Six words—just six words. No return address, no named sender, as she glanced toward Antonio’s curious gaze, then out toward the backstage corridor, no doubt where her purported dressing room was. Sensing her hesitation, Antonio spoke. “If you’re worried about this mystery person,” he began, “I can stand guard outside your dressing room. I’m at the top of my weight bracket in collegiate wrestling…?”

Macy smiled, reassured at last. “Actually, that sounds like a great idea— _shall we?”_ as they proceeded offstage into the darkened hallway.

_Backstage Theater, Teatro dei Rinnovati, Siena, Italy_

There was no menace awaiting them—none that they could see, anyhow. _Just a plain, nondescript door_ , Macy thought, but somehow, she knew this was _hers._ Closing her eyes once more, her brain became awash in elegant symmetry and asymmetry as she imagined just what her ideal jazz theater dressing room would be.

_She pictured floor-to-ceiling tapestries of eggplant and indigo hues, draped all over to create a cozy enclave entirely her own. Perhaps candles. Yes—candles too. Several dozen at least, thick and voluptuous, of pure coconut oil and organic beeswax. Incense sticks aplenty coupled with tasteful cushioned furniture would create a sumptuous ambiance second-to-none. Hanging rose quartz crystals would trail the walls, a fanciful ‘teatro’ constellation of her creation. A makeup mirror, elegant and sleek, decorated with lightbulbs—the vintage sort—and—_

She paused. _Finally, a brass nameplate on her door. Macy Vaughn, Jazz Singer._ Opening her eyes, she found precisely that, her name gleaming in brightly polished lettering as she ventured forth, twisting the doorknob to the serene interior of her very making. “ _Wow!”_ she whispered in awe, her fingers reaching out to touch the nearest quartz crystal, strung above her head like so many others in its wake.

“I’ll be back here if you need me—” and she nodded, as Antonio closed the door quietly behind her.

_Dressing Room, Backstage Theater, Teatro dei Rinnovati, Siena, Italy_

It was exactly as she had imagined, the fanciful tapestries, dark and sensuous, the myriad ivory-hued candles and quartz too— _and was that a whiff of incense?_ She slipped out of her kitten heels, stepping barefoot across the floor to her makeup bench where she sat facing the lightbulb-clad vintage mirror, about to remove a rhinestone earring, knowing, from past viewings of cinematic classics, this was what women did, back in the day, angling their head—their chin—their cheekbones—just _so—as a man stepped out of the shadows to greet her—a paramour, perhaps—_

She sighed. Nobody was coming for her. Nobody ever would. _Oh, the pitfalls of being an only child, lost and alone in an unforgiving world…_ as she studied the makeup upon the mirror’s counter, finding them precisely to her satisfaction, all colors she herself knew she would use. _But enough of that,_ she decided.

When was the last time she had a room to herself like this? _Never,_ that much she knew for certain, as she blotted her cheeks of the stage makeup she wore, now revealing her pristine, sun-kissed complexion underneath. It was the first time in quite awhile she had stopped and examined her reflection, noting her wide almost almond-shaped eyes, the curvature of her brows, and plump, crimson lips. Growing up and later, pursuing a career in the science field, she recalled encounters with people who took her less-than-seriously, due to how she looked, instead of assessing the quality of her work.

Macy had been told, over and over again, for as long as she could remember, just how _beautiful_ she was. Her childhood, marred with taunts and teasing, made this less believable in her mind, and far _less_ so given the Command Center… _incident._ If she truly were as what people had described, she felt, in her heart of hearts, that she would not be here. _Here,_ in the simulation crystal. _Here,_ without Harry—

As she observed, in the corner of her eye in the mirror’s reflection, a tall, shadowed figure stepping out of shrouded darkness, sporting stylish slacks, a dress shirt, and a Scala Derby _noir_ bowler hat—she swiveled around to face him—

“ _H-Harry?”_

This _had_ to be a phantasm—a visual auditory simulation crystal hallucination— _right?_ The _real_ Harry was with _Abigael._ The _real_ Harry liked _Abigael,_ not _her._ The _real_ Harry kissed Ab—she blinked rapidly, lest any tears escape.

“ _You want Abigael.”_ It was a statement, not a question, uttered with a deadpan expression.

He frowned— _expressively so—_ horrified that his own actions had led to her manual removal from the corporeal universe from whence he had come. _Even if for the briefest of moments._ “ _No,_ Macy.” He swallowed hard. “It— _she—_ was a mistake.”

A small hint of a smile dotted Macy’s visage. The real Harry, she knew, had to still be with Abigael, breathing down the wench’s neck with his Old Spice cologne she used to imagine was solely for _her_ own melanin-hued enjoyment, _her_ own olfactory pleasure. _What a fool I’d been._

With that said… _a fantasy couldn’t hurt…right?_ Maybe not in the real world, but here— _here—_ she, Macy Vaughn, could get a semblance of closure. “You…you seem _different,_ Harry,” she breathed, as he approached her _maquillage_ bench, kneeling behind her, stroking her mahogany tresses, now becoming the spritely, fanciful curls he loved so much.

“I _am_ different,” he whispered in her ear, as she shivered delightedly. But in the next moment, she silently berated herself— _get ahold of your emotions, Vaughn!_

She wouldn’t let him off so easily, fantasy or no. “You _kissed_ Abigael, you _want_ Abigael—” _It’s not that complicated. You didn’t choose me._

“No—love,” a pained expression flickered upon his own visage. “I’m so sorry Macy. Sorry that I…did what I did to her, hurting _you_ in the process. I was lost— _lonely—tired—_ I wasn’t thinking straight.” He took a deep breath, his voice having grown shaky. “I know _why—_ why you went _here—_ and I understand. _Completely.”_

Her eyelashes fluttered, breathing in his oh-so-familiar cologne, mixed with a hint of brandy, his favorite, set in a small carafe upon Vera Manor’s living room table, a rare indulgence for those high stress days of violent vanquishings and other terrestrial turmoil besides.

“But—” her protestation hung in the air, a silent accusation forthwith. _You kissed her—_

“A _mistake_ , Macy. I want _you._ I _need_ you.”

Whatever he expected, it was not the giggles that immediately followed. “What’s so funny?” he asked, his lips pursed in that quintessential transcontinental pout of his.

“N-nothing,” Macy exhaled, “it’s— _you’re—_ a _dream—_ a _fantasy—_ don’t get me wrong—” She eyed his handsome Lothario getup—his pristine, pale silken shirt, his elegant, spotless slacks, his shapely British bowler hat. _There was no way this was real._

_Not here._

_Not now._

Oh. _Oh._ His dear sweet Mace thought him a projection, an… _illusion._ He searched his mind for anything, _anything_ to convince her otherwise—and an idea popped in his head. “ _Hut 8,”_ he all but whispered, as the seated woman gave a start.

“It’s really _you,”_ she murmured in wonderment, her eyes growing wide.

He nodded. “I regret my actions that night _—_ just _please,_ tell me where you are… _we miss you…_ ” his voice faded away, his form rapidly disappearing before her.

“Siena. Italy. In your simulation crystal—Harry? _Harry!”_ Macy’s voice grew increasingly frantic as Antonio threw open the door behind her, which led to the darkened hallway.

“What happened?” he asked, finding the woman before him uninjured.

“ _H-Harry_ ,” she whispered. “Harry showed up. A-and…apologized _._ Then—then he— _he_ — _”_

“Vanished?” Macy nodded.

_Outside Dressing Room, Backstage Theater, Teatro dei Rinnovati, Siena, Italy_

“He’ll come back,” he noted astutely. “He seems determined,” as they walked out of her dressing room together, leaving the canvas bag, music stand, and sheets on a corner of the stage, neither noticing how Macy’s lyrics and jazz-fused song had magically transcribed itself onto several of the proffered blank manuscript sheets.

“Maybe—” she craned her neck, looking back, but the door had dissolved into blackness behind them. She turned back around. “Maybe you’re right.”

“I _know_ I am—” she detected a certain smugness in his voice.

“Someone’s self-confident—”

“Woman, I _radiate_ self-confidence—"

“Right—” She heard her stomach growl. _When was the last time they’d eaten?_ “Speaking of the self, how about we…feed ourselves? Grab a bite? Check out the local cuisine?”

He grinned. “Sounds like a plan!” And off they went, in pursuit of a culinary adventure.


	10. Of Fontanella and Fire

10 Of Fontanella and Fire

_“[Y]our regret, tie them to the rays of light…” -E.H. Hanson_

_Day 2, continued_

_Outside Dressing Room, Backstage Theater, Teatro dei Rinnovati, Siena, Italy_

She heard her stomach growl. _When was the last time they’d eaten?_ “Speaking of the self, how about we…feed ourselves? Grab a bite? Check out the local cuisine?”

He grinned. “Sounds like a plan!” And off they went.

_Patio, La Taverna di San Giuseppe, Siena, Italy_

Glancing at the tail-side-up bronze mermaid statue in front of their chic two-person bistro table, its metallic sheen green with age, Macy took in the bright blue sky, not to mention the faintest hint of hillside in the distance. _Via de Fontanella,_ the building’s corner sign read. _Everything seemed to be worded so beautifully here,_ she thought to herself, lining a cracker with one of four presented forms of enticing charcuterie. _Maybe it was the very nature of the Italian language, spoken in rapid succession with wide, expressive gestures and animated voices._

She re-examined the meat platter, and her morsel in particular. Was it Panzanella? _No, that was a savory bread item—_

“Sopressata, Strolghino, Salame Toscano, and what I _think_ is Chianti Salami Terra di Siena.”

 _Right._ “Thanks—” she answered, realizing he continued to study her visage, a furtive smile on his lips. “ _What?”_

“Want to talk about what just happened?” There seemed to be more to Antonio’s question than what had just been spoken.

“Nothing _happened—”_

“The guy that wrote to you to meet you in the dressing room? Orbed by the look of it, British—”

She fixed him a fiery glare so scorching it could shatter glass, as he held his hands up in mock-surrender. “Ok, _ok!_ Forget I said anything—”

“—It’s a touchy subject.” She would say sorry, but she knew, time and time again, women were too freewheeling with apologies oftentimes in modern-day society, and she had nothing to apologize for. Nothing _actionable_ at least.

_Patio, La Taverna di San Giuseppe, Siena, Italy_

Their meals arrived, Ossibuco di San Giuseppe for Macy—a slow-cooked veal with savory whole tomatoes, Filetto in crosta con porcini for Antonio—beef in a puff pastry crust, baked with earthy porcini mushrooms until tender. They took tentative bites, then larger ones of their respective dishes, which were half the size of their American counterparts. Portions were divvied up differently in this part of the world; their meal was enough for the one person alone—two if sharing occasional bites.

“I know this is a random subject…but what’s your family like, Antonio?” She had a sudden urge to ask, though she was altogether unsure as to why. “You don’t have to answer if you—”

“It’s ok. Just the usual family growing up, plus, y’know, the cultural aspects. Nothing much to tell. My mom’s raised us all to be strong—there’s that. She’s the one with a story though.”

“In what way?”

“She had this sister who was all kinds of… _stupid? Brave?”_ Antonio shook his head, unsure of what to make of his mother’s private assessment. “Who, some say, was too smart for her own good—” as Macy tilted her head, a puzzled expression upon her visage. _Too smart?_ “I mean—” he backtracked, “—this one time she was supposed to come back from college and lay flowers and clean the ceremonial shelf for Dia de Todos los Santos—”

“ _Dia de Todos los Santos?”_ She frowned. _Did he mean Dia de los Muertos?_

 _“_ All Saints Day in Puerto Rico. Not Mexican—”

“Ah, _got it—”_

“Anyways, instead of cleaning it, she mutters something about despising maschismo and toppling the patriarchy—shit went _down_ that night _—_ " his voice quieted to a whisper, as though the Italian restaurant’s waiters could understand the anecdotally-uttered American profanities.

Macy searched her mind, clouded as it was by her sojourn in this simulated environment. _Where had she heard that before? Toppling the patriarchy? Was it Mel?_ “So…then what happened?”

“Property damage. Property damage _happened._ She set fire to the place (an _accident_ she claimed), brought shame to her family, and ran away for good. Dunno where she is now.”

“Does your mom miss her?”

“She never talked about her much—but sometimes she gets this teary faraway look in her eyes.” He fixed his gaze upon Macy again. “But it’s safe to say, _yes,_ she misses her. And sometimes—I do too.”

Macy was surprised. “But you’ve never met her…?”

“True. I guess…it’s that you discover you can do things. _Weird_ things. And there’s nobody you can talk to in your family. _No one_. At _all._ And you wonder what it would be like if _she_ were there. Maybe she’d teach you a few things. Take you under her wing. Show you the ropes. How to channel that energy. That temporal stuff. That maybe you and she could’ve been…a _family_. Know what I mean?”

She nodded, thinking of Marisol, wishing with all her heart she had retained whatever memories she could in that far-too-short timeframe. _Two years was not enough._ If Marisol were alive—

But she knew where _that_ had led. _Mel, separated from Maggie and herself._ An alternate dimension created so she and her mother would never be apart for long. But that experiment, too, had failed miserably, though she had tried her hardest—and _then_ some. No matter the realm, no matter the reality, Marisol had been fated to die, and there was nothing anyone could have done to change that—least of all, a Source-imbued Macy.

WWMD? _What would Marisol do?_ What advice would she give her oldest, her Macy, on the topic of love? Guard your heart against the world, or pursue passion to no end? Thinking of how her youngest sister Maggie came to be, perhaps it was the latter. Sometimes, in her most cynical of moods, Macy would have commented, when alone and to no one in particular, that perhaps Marisol could have exercised even a _modicum_ of self-restraint. But those were impossible times and situations back then, she herself knew. And considering how she fared as Source Macy, far be it for her to cast the first stone…

_Flashback_

_Her great-aunt always said she was destined for greatness. Well, she and her two sisters. But what exactly, thought she, stirring her flat white in an Australian café, was greatness?_

_Laila studied the microfoam gathering upon the coffee mug’s surface, understanding the ratio of coffee-to-foam to be higher than other similar beverages. Was such ‘greatness’ making an impactful mark upon the world at-large? Saving the world from untold destruction? Or a more localized effort, in whatever field of study she pursued?_

_Somehow, she thought it would have meant the second of the above three choices. Saving the world from untold destruction. In another life, she would have—with her sisters, maybe. She imagined themselves as contemporary Charlie’s Angels, leaping into action, defeating the latest villain of the week, bringing order to a chaotic world. Then she thought of how many injuries such exploits would create—the scar tissue, the bleeding, the pain, as she took stock in—and relished—her newfound intercontinental life, even if it meant being away from her sisters for who knew how long._

_What happens to a lost Charmed One that never was? Can they claim credit where possibly none is due? One could, in theory, claim a situation of Schroedinger’s Cat. A cat that is of two simultaneous statuses at once, until the box is open—and the cat is either one status, or another—but never both. Is there a cause of action in the Court of Elders for such an odd situation? What if the Elders are gone—dead? And what if the recourse—the remedy—is worse? Per the Black Amber prophecy, one sister of the three Charmed Ones is always fated to die._

_Always._

_Her sisters were safe from the trio envisioned by Great-Aunt Laila. Safe to pursue their dreams, accomplish their lifelong goals, marry, and bear children if so they chose. Which her two sisters had. Placing the emptied cup upon the one-person table, she flagged down waitstaff, paid, and left, suitcases in hand, rolling steadily behind her—a trusty metallic steed—as she disappeared long into the night._

_Command Center, SafeSpace, Seattle, Washington_

Bright rays of light converged within the stark, austere atmosphere as Harry landed, feet upon concrete, nearly crumpling, as Maggie flew forward, managing to hold him upright. “Did you find her?” she asked, her doe-like eyes peering at his worn visage as he nodded once, curtly.

“I need to return—”

“ _Again?”_ Maggie was aghast. Flickering between realities—dimensions—warped simulation crystals— _whatever this was—_ was a feat rarely attempted once, let alone twice. “Are you _crazy—”_

He shook his head, mopping his brow with a stray handkerchief languishing in his back pocket. “Just—just a fool. _A fool in love,”_ he murmured the last statement so low that perhaps Maggie hadn’t heard—

As she enveloped him in her arms. “It’ll be ok, Harry—we’ll find her. _Trust me._ It’s—going—to—be—ok.” The roles had reversed; instead of her seeking his tutelage and moral support, it was now the other way around. “And when we find her, you can make _all_ the lovesick confessions your heart desires. Deal?”

He swallowed hard and nodded. “ _Deal_.”


	11. Tealights and Terror

11 Tealights and Terror

_“The sun sheds as it sets…” -E.H. Hanson_

_Day 2, continued_

_Command Center, SafeSpace, Seattle, Washington_

“And when we find her, you can make _all_ the lovesick confessions your heart desires. Deal?”

He swallowed hard and nodded. “ _Deal_.”

After another moment’s pause, he spoke again. “Mag— _Maggie—_ ” he breathed hoarsely, attempting to steady his breath and regain his composure—

“ _I found her_.”

_Dorm, Palazzo, Siena, Italy, Simulation Crystal_

The pair returned to their cottage-style dorm room accommodations, Mediterranean cypress prints and all, after a long day of music lessons, the unexpected backstage appearance of a certain British Whitelighter, and a scrumptious meal to tantalize the senses. Leaning back on the plump down feather pillows, Macy sighed in ecstasy, glancing behind her to the wall’s delicate turn-of-the-century etchings.

 _Was it her imagination, or were the cypress etchings beginning to change color, a shadowed slate to a dark forest green?_ She leaned closer to examine the artwork. _And she could’ve sworn those tiny pale olive trees and grapevine sketches adorning the wall were new, besides. Odd…_

As she leaned forward even more, causing herself to lose her balance, falling onto the wooden floor with a reverberating _thunk._ No sooner had that happened, Antonio leapt to his feet, in the direction of the noise. “Macy, are you ok?”

She was out cold.

Efforts to rouse her were for naught. Applying what he had learned a couple of summers ago during lifeguard training, he listened for signs of respiratory distress, performing the odd perfunctory chest compression in case. Truth be told, as he stepped back to survey the situation, it seemed she had knocked herself unconscious entirely by accident. He knew he ought to be more worried, but based on external vital signs alone, he was fairly certain she would be up and about within hours.

_Still…_

Just in case, he kept her where she lay. _If she didn’t wake up within_ …he checked the time… _an hour or so_ , _he would likely call the Azienda Ospedaliera._ Hopefully it would not come to that.

_Phantasm_

_She found herself walking along a paved road—a trail—on either side of her, overgrown trees and ferns for as far as the eye could see. Her gaze traveled upwards as she gasped headlong; myriad glowing sepia branches intertwined themselves, as if holding hands, clasped firmly, their digits interlocked in a brilliant display of what she knew Harry would consider ‘utterly sublime perfection.’ Glancing at one tree branch, forked sensuously against another almost as if to tickle her own senses, nearly as if to cause her to blush and turn away, she imagined._

_Him._

_Pictured him standing next to her, sweeping her mahogany curls past her sloping shoulders to plant a fiery kiss, whose very mark would sear into her aching soul. Aching—in want—of him. She exhaled shakily, attempting to recover herself—where was she off to? Where did this long and winding path lead? A pleasure stroll…or more?_

_A rustling ensued as her eyes traveled upward yet again—pearl strings upon interlaced necklaces upon froufrou adornments bedazzled her senses! There, on every glowing branch, stringed tealights took hold, creating jewelry decorating the indigo sky above through this thicket—this ‘blouson vert’ of laced laurel and weeping willow collar, as such fauna began a barely perceptible transformative process, indicating a shift in locale, a movement of sorts._

_The glimmering tealights twinkled before her. How dangerous could they be? Not very, was her assumption—her presumption—as her feet swept forward, and forward still._

_Miles to go before I sleep._

_The words of Robert Frost popped into her mind that instant, though she knew herself to be far from the New England locales of which he wrote. As the tea lights faded and sunlight beamed forth in the murky distance, she noticed those repositories of illumination replaced by—she squinted—_

_Beads. Hundreds upon thousands of beads._

_“Welcome to New Orleans,” a weathered sign read in fanciful script._

_Laissez les bon temps roulez. Let the good times roll._

_She should have been shocked—terrified—horrified to be transferred from one dimensional reality to the next—but whether it was from the illusory beauty of the forest behind her, or her inquisitive scientific nature—she was not. Scenery swept itself around her form, as she soon found herself walking the city street, coming face-to-face with La Pharmacie Francaise, its signpost claiming the spot to be a historical pharmacy museum._

_Pushing the aged door open, a relic if there ever was one, she heard the tinkle of the overhead bell as a fresh wave of air conditioning enveloped her body, shielding her from the heat she had barely noticed due to the novelty of her environs. Directly within view was a grey marble bar table, vaguely resembling a soda shop stand of yore, various glass bottles of every which substance known to magic kind…_

_‘Ask for Aunt Sue,’ the neatly penned signage read, below a large life-like portraiture of a woman by the name of “Zue Zue St. Clair.” Spotting a large glass bottle in the corner of the bar table, its dark, glossy appearance nearly obscured by the tall medicine stand to its right, her hand reached forward almost of its own volition, seizing its neck within her fast-tightening grasp—_

_Dorm, Palazzo, Siena, Italy, Simulation Crystal_

Her eyes flew open, her hands rigidly surrounding—not a dark glossy glass object, but rather—

She gasped. _Antonio’s neck!_ Macy drew her hands away that very instant, horrified at her actions. “Oh my— _oh my God—_ Antonio! Are you alright—I’m _so_ sorry!”

“It’s…” he coughed, massaging his neck with a somewhat pained expression. “It’s ok. Guess this means you’re feeling ok? No hospital I mean?” as she pulled herself into a seated position.

Macy shook her head. “No hospital,” then paused. “What _happened?”_

He drew a concerned smile, somewhat recovered from his minutes-before shock. “You leaned too far to see the etchings and fell off the bed.”

 _Weird._ “How long was I out?”

“Maybe…half an hour? Forty minutes?”

 _Oh. Jeez._ “I’m really sorry—”

“No need to apologize—just—” he stopped, studying her apologetic visage. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me? About that British guy, Harry? Or that dream you just had?”

Macy blinked several times. She hadn’t expected him to be this direct, so soon after the fact. “T-there’s nothing to tell,” she muttered, deliberately avoiding his fixed gaze.

“Isn’t there?” he asked with the raise of an eyebrow. “You disappear here with a tragedy or history parallel to mine somehow, a guy named Harry shows up from a different dimension, _and_ you nearly choke me to death after accidentally knocking yourself unconscious—”

She let out a deep sigh. _Of course he was right. She knew he was right—and yet—_

As if reading her thoughts, he began to speak once more. “If it helps, there’s wine on the balcony, if you need any—”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” He glanced at her. _You sure?_

 _Positive._ “I’m ready.”


	12. Of Sunrise and Shakespeare

12 Of Sunrise and Shakespeare

_“Whisper all that was…” -E.H. Hanson_

_Day 2 to Day 3_

_Balcony, Palazzo, Siena, Italy, Simulation Crystal_

Macy took another sip of her chartreuse, sunburst Chianti, set in a crystal glass, its surface laser cut to utter perfection. _If Harry were here,_ she silently mused, _he would call it ‘sublime,’ his creamy, accented chatter practically smooth as velvet against the most sensitive spot of her neck, inches away from her ear—_

“Mace?”

The sound of her name—no, _nickname—_ jolted her out of her momentary reverie as the liquid contained within the fragile cup sloshed, skipping past its edges, droplets falling atop her wrist like errant raindrops, _tricksters,_ makers of _folly_ , as she remembered a moment past, in which she and her Whitelighter had given assistance to a satyr, a half-goat, half-man, known for various and sundry hijinks of the jovial, celebratory sort. “Huh?”

“How did you two meet?”

“Two?”

“You and Harry—”

“Oh.” _Right._ Antonio wanted answers. _But was she herself, Macy Vaughn, ready at long last, to provide them? There was only one way to find out_. “We met…” she trailed off, hesitating between telling Antonio of the time the Whitelighter tied her and her newfound sisters to attic chairs, and the other time— _a memory emerged—_ when a mere piece of stray bedsheet was the only barrier between herself and the mother she had always yearned for, but had never once laid eyes on. _A reminiscing she had not recalled before._ “When I was in college. Except briefly. We didn’t really know each other at the time—”

“Serendipity? Like, two people in the same room, a decade before they _actually_ meet?”

“Yeah—” she nodded. “Yes, something like that.”

“What was he like, Harry?”

She inhaled sharply. _Twice. Twice in the past several minutes his name had been uttered._ “He was…” she searched for the word, “… _dapper._ Dressed in a suited vest, a blazer, as buttoned up a guy could be.”

Antonio made a face. “He sounds… _old…”_

“Old, as in, old soul? I guess,” she mused aloud, as she thought back to her earliest memory of him, surprised it was that, and not the roped attic chair, that emerged from her subconscious renderings. _Was this a result of the simulation crystal’s magic?_ She hardly knew. “I was scared, and he…helped me.”

“How?” Antonio couldn’t help but ask, wondering how someone with the fashion sense of his fedora-wearing Great-Uncle Jorge could help someone like whip-smart, scientist Macy. _This Harry didn’t seem like a molecular biologist…or anyone remotely resembling a notable scientific subject matter expert…_

“He…I think…he touched my forehead. I mean,” she added hastily, when Antonio raised a quizzical eyebrow. “He— _Harry—_ I mean—found a way to calm me down, because I was upset. It’s a long story—I barely even remember—"

“And then what happened?”

“I woke up the next morning, my anxiety disappeared, the tears shed—the sadness, the _fear_ —vanished _. Gone._ I had Harry to thank for that.”

“The time after, though?”

Macy bit her lip, unsure of how he would react, but pushed onward, rapidly uttering the next statement in a single breath. “He tied me and my sisters to chairs in our attic and told us we had… _ummm…_ special powers.”

This resulted in a head-tilt. _Tell me more?_ Antonio seemed to say. _Was that an expression of curiosity or an etched-over side-eye?_ Macy acknowledged her own challenges in reading others’ visual cues and outward expressions, having had so little experience, growing up mostly isolated prior to attending boarding school. _If only she had siblings back then—cousins, even—_

“Desperate times called for desperate measures? It’s not what it seems—” she knew she was rambling but was altogether unsure as to how to stop. “I mean, what would _you_ do if someone said _you_ had special powers?”

Now it was his turn to chuckle. “Accuse them of being high as a kite, and run in the opposite direction?”

“But you don’t seem shocked.” _A statement, not a question,_ as Macy’s lips pursed, somewhat deep in thought. “Why is that?”

“I guess,” he replied, “I’ve seen too much in my family to turn a blind eye. To _magic._ To the _unexplainable,_ I mean. Just…stuff. And _Laila,_ ” he added, by way of afterthought.

_Day 3_

A few quiet minutes passed— _or were they hours, in this part of the infinitesimal foundling universe?—_ as they sipped their wine, gazing at the horizon before them, as sequined midnight stars gradually gave way to burnished gold, crimson, and brilliant tangerine hues, dazzling streamers splashed across the sky.

“Harry and I were friends.” She cleared her throat, feeling herself oddly parched, perhaps due to their extended earlier conversation. _Or conversations._ “Weeks…no, _months_ later…we became… _very_ good friends—”

“And you two—” he made a motion with his fingers, indicating the pair—herself and the Whitelighter both—“never took it further?” She shook her head, choosing this particular moment to stare into the distance, observing the stick-like dots that were vineyard grapes far further afield, miles upon miles away, before glancing back at him.

“Things get… _strange…_ when you live with two younger sisters you just found out about, _plus_ Harry living in the attic—rent-free—especially when you’re all colleagues—sort of—”

“Sounds complicated,” remarked Antonio, thanking heavens he never had to deal with such an unconventional living arrangement. “Did you ever ask him to cough up?”

She blushed. “Honestly, we already considered him family—”

“ _Kidding—”_ but he motioned her to continue, so she did.

“We spent so much time together, things just— _happened._ One day, he burst into my bedroom wearing the most threadbare boxer shorts I’d ever seen—and I couldn’t stop _staring_. At his _legs._ And that time he wore those dark-rimmed _glasses._ And the way his mouth would crinkle, and his British accent, and his really pert, cute, round b—”

“I think we get the idea, Mace,” Antonio barely suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “Remind me again why you didn’t…?”

She inhaled sharply, as more memories drew themselves forth of their own accord, the ache of which had lessened somewhat, after spending time in this Italy— _her_ Italy—no, more like _their_ Italy. “I came to the C—I mean, our workplace. I _meant_ to tell him. But—” her voice faltered. “ _I was too late.”_

He frowned. “Too late? As in, he was…gone?”

“Not exactly. More like, I walked in on him, kissing Ab—” she choked on the wench’s name, still unable to enunciate the syllables of the woman who had shattered her own fragile, formative heart. She swallowed hard. “I walked in on him, kissing someone else. I was—I was too late—I let work get in the way— _distractions_ —it— _I—he—”_ she sputtered, trying to parse through it all until Antonio, with a single gaze, indicated, _it’s ok. I get it._

_But did he really?_

“It’s not the same as—as you. And _Laila._ I mean, it’s stupid. _I’m_ stupid—“

“You’re _not_ stupid—"

“For waiting too long, for being too chicken to tell him how I felt. I’ve ruined _everything!”_ Her voice began to rise in anguish. “I _knew_ he liked me, even if he didn’t say as much. I _saw_ the way his eyes traveled, each time I went out to fundraising galas with my coworkers.” She held back a sob as Antonio patted her shoulder sympathetically. “ _I waited for him to make a move,”_ Macy ended in a near-whisper. “ _I waited—and he never did.”_

Antonio mulled Macy’s words over in his head, and a thought occurred to him. “If he felt as strongly as you claim he did, what’s not to say he still feels the same way?”

“That’s impossible—he _kissed—”_

He waved her words away. “I know, I _know—_ but hear me out—what if, she kissed _him_ first, and he was caught by surprise?”

Macy felt disgusted by the whole thing, but thought back to every past interaction, herself and Harry, versus herself and Abigael.

_Who had a prior demonstrated history of integrity?_

_By far and away, Harry. Darling Harry._

_Who was the more sultry seductor of the two?_

She bit her lip, her eyes meeting Antonio’s own.

_Abigael._

_It was a no-brainer._

“I think,” he ventured cautiously, “you should talk to him. Clear up any misunderstanding. Maybe even…give this Harry a second chance? There’s a Shakespearean saying—"

She knew the quote by heart. “ _All’s fair in love and war.”_

And in that moment, she began to chart her course anew.


	13. Mi Ancla, or the Anchor of Antonio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Anchor" by Mindy Gledhill: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cB3BWmCOW2Y  
> "Mi Ancla" by Mindy Gledhill (same song as above, in Spanish): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dNF7PL6PSbo

13 Mi Ancla, or the Anchor of Antonio

_“…To fleeting seconds as they pass…” -E.H. Hanson_

_Day 3, continued_

_Dorm, Palazzo, Siena, Italy, Simulation Crystal_

Yawning, arms outstretched cat-like, she blinked once or twice, surveying her bucolic faux Dresden surroundings. _What day was it?_ Every minute—every _hour—_ seemed to blend together in a melted amalgamation of the most eccentric, otherworldly sort.

 _Then she remembered._ The Chianti hours earlier as she confessed her lovelorn woes to the patient friend that was young Antonio, the very same man who was situated some meters away in a twin-sized bed of his own in their shared dormitory accommodations, snoring loud enough to wake the dead.

 _Wake the dead, indeed._ Wake the dormant memories of true love lost—if not permanently, then for a time. What’s to say the Whitelighter’s apparition and apology were genuine, his actions sustainable in the long term? She tucked a stray mahogany curl behind her earlobe. _Was he only saying sorry to lure her back, because it was her sisters that missed her? Would he continue kissing Abigael if given a chance? Was he truly sorry, or sorry he was caught in the act, a tamer ‘in flagrante delicto’?_

Drawing her knees to her chin, the crisp, cool linen bedsheet creating a mountainous Alpine shape, she wondered. _Pondered,_ for the next minutes, which turned into several, then ten, to fifteen minutes more until Antonio began stirring.

She smelled crisp, baked _fette biscottate_ bread and what she knew to be freshly brewed cappuccino: hazelnut espresso, coconut milk foam, and a faint whiff of cacao powder, sighing contentedly for the briefest of moments.

_Breakfast._

_Prima colazione._

_Theater, Teatro dei Rinnovati, Siena, Italy_

They had begun with scales and vocal warm-ups; it was now Antonio’s turn to choose a song—a piece that spoke to him somehow, which resonated with his current emotional state of being ( _no pressure,_ he thought). He was, according to Macy, to sightread for an hour, practice, then perform the piece to a vast array of empty seats within the ornate, cavernous theater.

Time flew by, and perform he _did,_ his rich baritone-tenor echoing in the surrounding eaves, Macy’s scalp prickling on end upon hearing the euphony of his voice.

… _I am nearly world renowned/As the restless soul who always skips town/But I look for you to come around/And anchor me back down…_

She recognized the haunting melody from an early aughts-era TV show; the song “Anchor” by Mindy Gledhill had once been featured in “Bones,” season 7, episode 2, “The Hot Dog in the Competition,” about a woman, newly pregnant, accidentally killed by her 300-pound training instructor after being denied her dream of retiring from the competitive eating industry in favor of a quieter, decidedly more harmonious lifestyle. At the time, Macy was a college student waffling between one major and yet another— _biology one week, music the next_ —unable to absorb more than the typical conjecturing of who the perpetrator could possibly be, between stray crumbs of salted popcorn, slurps of caffeinated diet soda, and the ubiquitous all-nighter (or _several,_ if she were truly honest with herself and her study habits— _or lack thereof)_.

But now— _now…_ she realized the nuances, the pain of a fractured life, of stolen love, a dream— _denied—_ as the ethereal song continued, giving sway to her innermost emotions buried deep within, Antonio closing the first two stanzas, commencing now with the third.

_…When people pin me as a clown/You behave as though I’m wearing a crown…_

_…Soy famosa en el lugar/Por inquieta y no puedo parar/Pero yo te busco sin cesar/Mi ancla tú serás…_

She gasped in surprise for two reasons. First, that he sung so wonderfully in both Spanish _and_ English—she understood him to be of Latin descent but _never_ made linguistic assumptions. And second, that he held himself in such _little_ regard.

 _Oh Antonio…you’re anything but a clown._ And what was that of a crown? Perhaps this was a clever allegory to Macy teaching him the ropes and disentangling his past, seeing beyond what others thought of him. He did mention, after all, how others had perceived him. But after these hours, these days, Macy understood him to be a thoughtful person, a _kind_ person, one who loved but one woman and paid so dearly a price. _To have been so young, and to have suffered so much._ Maybe that was their defining link, how they had both ended up at the Palazzo fountain, in the most desolate of destinations?

_…There are those who think that I’m strange/They would box me up, and tell me to change/But…you anchor me back down…_

_Extraña es la imagen que doy/Me queren cambiar a la moda dehoy…_

She could certainly identify with the strangeness aspect, recalling her childhood, filled with bullying, people making assumptions of her and about her, thinking her a rarity _and_ oddity for her varied musical, scientific, and literary interests. _Typecasting_ her. _Stereotyping_ her. _Why aren’t you…_ she imagined them asking as they always had… _more talkative? More bubbly?_

 _Why so serious?_ But that was her natural temperament—her ambivert tendencies—a curious mixture, she realized now, of Marisol’s spritely extroversion coupled with Dexter’s equanimity and introverted nature. All she really was, at the end of the day, was— _Macy. Herself. Herself, and no one else._

As his bilingual stanzas drew to a close, she stepped closer. _Surely_ such melodic talent ran in his family, right? “ _How are you not famous yet?”_ she spoke her thoughts aloud.

He laughed, some feet away, having concluded his center stage solo performance. “I’ve got a ways to go. And I’m definitely not perfect. More, a work of progress than anything else.”

 _Antonio definitely didn’t need tutoring—he was as fine a singer as they came_ , Macy posited to herself. Though it was entirely possible, on the other hand, that matters of psychology were at play, which required Maggie’s expert input—as yet another crisp envelope bearing a navy waxen seal soared through the air, landing, once more, at her feet.

She made as though to carefully loosen the envelope’s finely-hewn edges—before ripping away at its perimeter, impatience having grabbed hold. Either way, the message was brief:

 _Same time, same place_.


	14. From Impossibility to Illumination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Both" by Ingrid Andress: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QewwtaInrKw

14 From Impossibility to Illumination

_“…But hold onto your hope…” -E.H. Hanson_

_Day 3, continued_

_Dressing Room, Backstage Theater, Teatro dei Rinnovati, Siena, Italy_

She had imagined, once more, the fanciful tapestries, dark and sensuous, the myriad ivory-hued candles and quartz too— _and incense? Yes, incense aplenty—_ she slipped out of her Milanese leather boots, stepping barefoot across the floor to her makeup bench where she sat facing the lightbulb-clad vintage mirror, studying her reflection, angling her visage—her chin—cheekbones—just _so—_ as she turned her attention once more to the letter she held in her hand. _A tangible symbol of hope?_ One could only dream…

_Alba levi litterae._

_White…letter._ She paused, stroking the raised navy-colored waxen seal atop the weighted envelope. _Levi. Levi, levi, levi…what was levi?_

And suddenly it clicked.

_Whitelighter Letter._

As if on cue, a victrola—a record-player of yore, its nostalgic aged mocha-tinted wood combined with a classic rotary turner—began to play a tune she recognized as “Both” by Ingrid Andress, which had delicate, altogether ethereal, country undertones, with indie-pop folk elements as well. Its lyrics were, like everything else within this simulation crystal, perfectly suited to her current mood, as opposed to mere happenstance. _Nothing within the crystal was ever a coincidence._

_Casual, you’re keepin’ it casual…nothin’ too meaningful…nothin’ irrational…_

She blinked away tears prickling at the crescent-moon surface of her eyelids, silently willing herself to achieve an impossible level of composure, knowing this was, after all, the second letter in as many days, from the man who had captured her friendship at first glance from day one in Vera Manor’s attic, then her heart mere months later, when they found themselves transported to Seattle, clear across the country.

 _This is supposed to be a casual conversation_ , she reminded herself. _Don’t leap, don’t jump to bury your soul within his wayward own. Guard your heart—shield yourself from the inevitable pain—when he leaves you—for—_ she shuddered involuntarily— _her. Abi—that wench—_ as she rose from her _maquillage_ bench, determined to free her mind of such sordid thoughts, if only for the briefest of moments…

_You’re blurring the lines, you’re playing two sides…Just make up your mind…_

_Please, Harry,_ she entreated silently. _Make up your mind. You write me one letter after the other. If not for mere friendship, then why?_

Macy walked to the center of the room, swaying her hips to the music, willowy arms outstretched, slender fingers spread wide, eyes shut the next second, opening her delicate, aching soul to the universe, as if to say, _I’m here, dear world. What is it you want of me?_ as she felt a soft tap on her shoulder, knowing exactly who it was even with her eyes closed, by his intoxicating scent of Old Spice and beautiful, bygone eras.

This was _not_ an entirely unwelcome intrusion into her serene backstage space, if she had to be honest with herself; she glanced at the glimmering rose quartz crystals rotating in place, each held by a single string originating from the indigo-draped ceiling overhead before slowly turning around—

To face—

_Him._

Harold Greenwood, formerly known as Jimmy Westwell.

_Harry._

Her longtime friend, once upon a time, days, weeks, and perhaps months ago. He silently stepped closer out of the shadows, reaching out to fondle a stray mahogany curl as she inhaled sharply, her physicality’s response betraying her wanton desire of him, despite her innermost turmoil. “ _W-What do you want?_ ” she all but whispered, her visage upturned, craving his very touch, regardless of her self-remonstrations to the contrary—the definition of _angst_. _Conflict—_

_Impossible, you make it impossible…so irresponsible…_

As his heated lips met her cheekbone, her lashes fluttering in rapid motion—

“ _For us to be together—”_ he murmured softly, stroking her visage, causing any and all thoughts of doubt—of _pain—_ to vanish. “Shall we dance?” She nodded, hesitating only briefly before offering him her right hand, his right pulling her closer by near-gravitational means into an invisible comingled orbit, landing atop the intricate column of her spine.

_Have space or get close, but you can’t do both…_

The fourth stanza began, a testament to self-love and the challenges of determinedly drawing those ever-blurred boundaries. Harry had already apologized—this she _knew—_ and maybe, it was time for her to release those anxieties, those internal torments that had plagued her subconscious. Her having disappeared for however long or short a time was penance enough, perhaps. Long enough for him to realize what—or rather, _who—_ he needed in his life. _He came back for her—and that in and of itself was a decision of sorts…_

_So what does it mean when you’re telling me secrets/I’m spilling mine and we’re just getting deeper…_

The stanzas folded and melded, rotated and replayed, to allow the couple a chance to reacquaint themselves with the other’s form, as the wood floor shifted, _transformed,_ to, Harry assumed, where Macy felt _happiest,_ most at ease— _surely a 1940s-era Manchester jazz hall? A modern-day Portuguese ballroom?—_ but, as the pair continued to dance, he realized the scenery looked rather familiar—

“Vera Manor Garden?” he bore a quizzical expression, his mouth puckered in that prim-and-proper kissable expression Macy liked so much. _What on earth_? Stringed tealights woven ‘round ivy-clad trellises emerged, along with a sturdy patio table and chairs akin to their corporeal counterparts, and what appeared to be the Victorian antique French doors and solarium windows beckoning to the equally-cozy indoors.

She laughed shyly in his embrace as he slowly twirled her around beneath the glow of a hundred or so tiny, shimmering lights, finding himself wearing dark casual slacks and a cerulean silk shirt, and Macy sporting a flowing floral olive green caftan outfit, form-fitting leggings, and comfortable ballet flats. “Remember that time in the garden when Maggie took a picture of us? Just us two?”

He nodded, recalling how disheveled everyone had been that morning, having fought off yet another adversary of the night. The only clean article of clothing he had at the time was his burgundy cotton sweater, and Macy, _lovely_ Macy, wore a casual pinstriped shirt with the most alluring pair of jeans he’d _ever_ set eyes upon. Maggie was putting the finishing touches on her Kappa project, and insisted the pair pose together. Macy, altogether exhausted, held her mustard-colored mug in one hand, leaning her crown of curls atop his own shoulder, as he looked on admiringly.

 _My wife._ Those words emerged at that moment within his subconscious, and for once, he let the phrase linger as Maggie’s smartphone clicked away. Then, it occurred to him that the youngest Vera sister had long since finished the main portion of her sorority project at least four months earlier— _so why were they posing out-of-doors?_

He laughed. “How could I forget?” And then realized—perhaps it was Maggie’s subtle nudge to bring the two together, given her heightened empath abilities of late. _Oh, Margarita, you_ are _a sly one!_

_You’re blurring the lines…_

The music continued as their fingers explored the length of the other’s back, the other’s shoulders, and more—tenuously, _curiously._ “We replaced the tealights right before, remember? I’d heard a song on Pandora—and…” She paused, running her fingers along the base of his jawline, “I really wanted to dance with you—”

His mouth formed a rounded “o.” _How had he not realized?_ Perhaps it was his exhaustion— _or—_ the fact he was denying himself who he wanted most in the world. Convincing himself— _trying_ to, at least—that whatever overtures and flirtation transpired were solely figments of his imagination and nothing more. “With…” he breathed, hardly daring to believe it true, “… _me?”_ He stroked her sprightly curls once more, inhaling the scent of cinnamon and cloves, as she indicated her assent.

_Just make up your mind…_

“More than I was willing to admit at the time…”

“But—why didn’t you _?_ Ask me _,_ I mean?” Harry was genuinely curious. _How oblivious he had been!_

“I guess…I knew that once that line was crossed, there was no going back. To being friends.” Her expression softened somewhat. “I grew up alone, and you, Mel, and Maggie are my life. If things went south, I—” her voice faltered. “I didn’t know back then if I’d be able to handle that. There was so much _change—_ I went from being a newly-orphaned only child to having two younger sisters plus a professor living in the attic—a very _smart, accomplished_ one—” she swiftly added, gazing affectionately at him.

“That, and…” she hesitated, “I was waiting for you to make the first move.”

_Dressing Room, Backstage Theater, Teatro dei Rinnovati, Siena, Italy_

The music suddenly ended without warning, as the pair found themselves back in Macy’s dressing room once more. Harry could sense Maggie calling for him—“Macy, I don’t have much time—do you know how to return? Home, to Vera Manor?”

She shook her head. “I keep seeing visions of Aunt Sue—or Zue Zue St. Clair, in New Orleans—at a historical pharmacy—but nothing makes sense—” neglecting to tell him how she had accidentally knocked herself unconscious, triggering that phantasm of sorts.

“Do you _want_ to return?”

“ _Yes,”_ she whispered, as they continued holding hands, well after the melody had finished. “I want _you,_ Harry Greenwood,” she murmured as he flickered away, now but a fast-fading shadow in the ether.

_Command Center, SafeSpace, Seattle, Washington_

He landed noiselessly, wincing as his ankle hit the table leg in front of him. “What did she say?” Maggie’s doe-eyes studied him carefully, as if to discern an answer by virtue of his outward, somewhat-disheveled appearance.

“She wants to go home,” he responded, employing a certain amount of brevity, causing Maggie to yelp with excitement, “but she doesn’t know how,” causing the youngest Charmed One to appear crestfallen in the next instant.

“What do we do, Harry? How do we bring my sister home?”

He paused, reflecting on Macy’s last words spoken before he made his hasty departure. “ _New Orleans_. We pay a visit to _New Orleans_.”


	15. Sunny with a Smile

15 Sunny with a Smile

_“…For something new is here at last…” -E.H. Hanson_

_Day 3_

_A waterfall, she thought, her bare toes stepping onto the glossy, glittering koa wood surface, surrounded by fern leaves thrice the size of her head. Philodendron monstera ‘split leaf,’ those were called. Her ankle brushed against a streaked stalk of silver lace fern as well as the familiar pungent dollar coin fronds of eucalyptus. Heart-shaped elephant ear plants adorned the right of the water source, its emerald edges giving way to a sweet damask pink center._

_Upon second glance, she realized this was no waterfall. Rather, it was a manmade (or woman made?) shower head, artfully hidden amongst tree branches to provide a natural ambiance. In the foreground, she detected the outline of a familiar burnished brick building, perhaps appearing more modernized from the vantage point at which she was situated. Long slender Kimberly Queen fern dotted the walls, providing feathery shade against the pale, unyielding sky, along with its staid fraternal twin the Nephrolepsis falcata, sensible and true._

_A sleek silver handle jutted from the shower’s wall directly in front of her. As if on instinct, she moved to adjust the volume—turn off the jet—her hand moved the knob to the left—twice to the right—_

_But the water would not turn off._

_Beginning to panic, she continued angling the object this way and that, wondering whether someone in some semblance of authority would cart her away—accuse her of whatever it was that made her very existence an aberration—a crime against nature—_

_Dorm, Palazzo, Siena, Italy, Simulation Crystal_

She gasped for breath, voice shaking as her eyes sprang open. _Palazzo. Not…wherever that was. You are safe. In the crystal. In the Palazzo._

“Everything alright?”

Macy gave a start, before noticing the seated figure at the rightmost of her bed. _Antonio._ “I—I think so?”

“You left to take a nap before afternoon lessons—I heard you toss and turn—I got worried—” he broke off, concern etched over his comely visage.

“I’m—” she swallowed hard. “I’m fine. Completely, absolutely _fine,_ ” as she sat upright. “Where’s our next lesson again?”

_Hallway, Palazzo, Siena, Italy, Simulation Crystal_

“Are you sure we’re going in the right direction?” Macy asked, not for the first time, as the pair found themselves entering a winding tunnel-like corridor, surrounded every which way with transparent 1800s era glass plating that seemed to fit more in line with “Clue” the board game, otherwise known as “Cluedo” abroad. _‘Do pass the blinis, Martin,’_ she imagined a polished, suited gentleman asking, one foot past the solarium’s high-paneled threshold, his aquiline nose snottily upturned, fully expecting his every whim catered to—

“Yup,” came the answer, interrupting her imagined conversational ponderings, as they continued onward. She noticed a cloud-filled, ambiguous spread of ether in the sky above, while she silently questioned where on earth the sunshine had gone, the brazen, bright vivacity of which welcomed her to this part of Italy one afternoon, not so very long ago.

_Laboratorio in serra, Palazzo, Siena, Italy, Simulation Crystal_

They squinted at the sign before them. _Laboratorio in serra,_ according to the tiny brass plaque.

_Greenhouse laboratory._

Pushing the door open, Macy gasped, taking in the bohemian chic chamber’s exquisite tiled flooring, the picture window-to-skylight transparent gloss showcasing the austere outdoors, the turned-off adornment of string lights, and the myriad plants sprinkled about in heavy straw and plasticine containers.

All of a sudden, familiar lyrics entered her mind. “Sunny,” by Bobby Hebb, if she wasn’t mistaken, as the victrola from earlier somehow mysteriously reappeared in the greenhouse space before them, playing the very same tune.

_Sunny, yesterday my life was filled with rain…_

They slowly made their way forward to the bamboo wraparound table, two sleek honey-colored stools awaiting them, not to mention, a laptop for…Macy tilted her head, puzzled. _Research? Reporting?_ It seemed almost minutes ago, the two had lamented their life’s sorrows, each providing an empathetic ear. Ordinarily, she considered herself the most solitary of creatures, even with two younger sisters, preferring runs in Hilltowne’s campus at 3 am, midnight snacks of apples with crunchy peanut butter, and showering at 4 am besides.

_Sunny, you smiled at me and really eased the pain…_

She _never_ let anyone in. It was easier, she’d initially thought, than opening yourself up and ending up hurt in the process. But the incident with Harry happened. And Antonio came along to pick up the pieces, a most unexpected friend…and the rest, as one would say, was history…

“After _you_ ,” Antonio was heard to say, as he beckoned her toward the seat closest to the laptop. And so she sat, as did he. Another couple of seconds passed before she noticed a manila folder icon on the computer screen. _Open me,_ it read in prominent lettering. So she did, an intricate calligraphic PDF manual springing open as they read from top to bottom, instructions for extracting plant essence for specialized sequencing. _A team-building exercise, if ever there was one._

_Sunny, thank you for the truth you let me see…_

“We’re going to need…” Macy paused, mulling the fanciful text over in her mind. “Two pipettes,” imagining a pair of plastic laboratory tools with chambers to hold and dispense liquid with efficiency and ease, “two canisters of pipette tips,” _to avoid cross-contamination,_ “mini plastic test tubes, and the main plant we’re dealing with—” visualizing the _Ceratopteris richardii,_ the C-Fern plant commonly used in academic settings for microbiology studies.

Antonio stared in wonder as each of the stated experimental ingredients began materializing, one after the other. “What’s all _this_?”

Macy laughed. “Your first microbiology lesson. In Italy. If, of course, you’re ok with that?” She threw him a sweet, innocent-eyed expression, almost pleadingly so.

“I’m in,” he replied not a second later, barely suppressing a grin. This was the most excited he’d been in ages, not including his first foray back into music earlier the same day. _Why do I feel weird?_ Antonio inquired of himself, reaching for a pipette.

Then he realized. _I’m not feeling weird. I’m…happy._ He had gone on so long, mourning the past and a life that had forever changed, that he hadn’t realized what it was to be content with life’s little wonders, even if it were a simulation of the most mystical sort, a botany laboratory in Siena, Italy of all fantastical places.

_Sunny, thank you for the facts from A to Z…_

Macy winced as she pierced a side of the C. Fern plant; even if it wasn’t a breathing creature, she hated causing any measure of pain and sometimes wondered if plants themselves weren’t entirely sentient themselves. Botany bioethics aside, she provided a quick demonstration on the correct use of pipettes and their clear plastic tips, before allowing Antonio to proceed with the plant serum extraction.

“Antonio, you’re doing great!” she offered him welcome words of encouragement.

“Thanks, Macy.” He almost called her “sis,”—as in “thanks, sis,” but stopped himself at the last possible moment. _Where had_ that _come from?_ Perhaps it was the mentorship role she presently occupied; whatever it was, he felt as though he had known her—maybe in another life, another journey. However it came to pass, it no longer mattered. _She was here, showing him the way. The way forward, out of mired grief. A promise of improved tomorrows. And he knew—and so did she—that ‘better,’ such days would be._

The whirrs and clicks of their pipettes echoed in the glass chamber where they found themselves, as the melody continued. _Oh Harry,_ she thought to herself, remembering the second-to-last stanza’s lyrics, reciting a snippet as if in prayerful plea, _you’re my spark of nature’s fire…my sweet complete desire…_

_…Oh sweet Sunny—_

_…Oh, Harry—_

_I love you._


	16. Of Butterflies and Black Amber

16 Of Butterflies and Black Amber

_“…Beg your own forgiveness…” -E.H. Hanson_

_Flashback_

_After a stint in Melbourne, her suitcases traveled alongside her to Singapore’s Jewel Changi Airport. Her once-questioning soul felt somehow at ease, despite the utter newness of her tropical surroundings. A cactus garden in Terminal 1, an LED-lit Terminal 2 enchanted garden, with upwards of seven hundred orchids(!), and finally, Terminal 3, where she currently sat, a positively glorious one thousand-butterfly natural habitat. Though, if she thought long and hard enough about her current situation, there was nothing natural nor normal about it at all._

_Once upon a time—she mused, glancing at what the placard denoted were Blue Jay butterflies, or Graphium evemon eventus, fluttering mere inches away from her visage—once upon a time, I was—_

_I was—happy._

_Even though she left of her own accord to flee a less-than-desirable home life (her parents’ marital tension reaching a head), she sensed within herself a hint of effervescent, lingering joy, of what she imagined true love must have been—what it must have felt like—the endless possibilities of what could have been._

_What was the opposite of survivor’s guilt?_

_Perhaps it was this—the freedom to fly, escaping the cold confines of the hospital for good—she could only hope. But somehow, she understood it was far more than that, and she felt this to be true in the very marrow of her bones, recalling her time in the ICU, and how, more than once, she had heard a friendly voice calling to her—telling her she would survive—that this would not break her—_

_Who was it that had spoken, this specter who had kept her company all those late nights, long after her sisters had left?_

_Before she could ruminate upon this further, the boarding call announcement blared through, as she jumped, startled, racing for the terminal gate—_

_To Austria, anywhere from moments to hours upon hours later, hiding photos of her international travels though they were an occupational necessity, donning a face mask and shield, much as she had seen missmads do in the first or second vlog as of late. Gazing around her, (Wilkommen! a sign read to her left) everything seemed different—wrong, somehow—as if she were in an entirely alternate dimension of her very own, with no possible chance of escape._

_And what on earth had Great-Aunt Laila meant by Charmed ‘greatness?’_

_If nobody missed her, young Laila-the-newly-recovered, if there had been no guarantee she would have been such a Charmed one, given the imprecise nature of pronouncements and prophecies, was there even so much as a claim to greatness, as powerful as she and her two sisters could have one day been? A bioethical and metaphysical conundrum if ever there was one…_

_As time passed and she grew more situated with her surroundings, she found herself playing her trumpet outside the window of a nursing home, within the town square the next day, and in front of an empty town hall building after that. Perching a cheap secondhand phone tripod, she created YouTube videos of her work, to bring joy in dark times: perhaps greatness could mean many things._

_All of a sudden, completing the last measure of a concerto, she felt moisture below her nostril—a tiny crimson smudge—a nosebleed. Memories colliding, folding, unfolding, catapulting atop, one after the other—as she collapsed into a wave of unyielding darkness._

_Day 3_

_Command Center, SafeSpace, Seattle, Washington_

“What do we do, Harry? How do we bring my sister home?”

He paused, reflecting on Macy’s last words spoken before he made his departure. “ _New Orleans_. We pay a visit to New Orleans.” Maggie touched his shoulder, shuddering once, eyes shut, picturing an elaborately-decorated forest, an antique pharmacy, and weeping willow trees, as the coordinates flashed before her mind’s eye.

“ _I know where,”_ she murmured, whispering directions to Harry, who offered his arm.

_Undisclosed Location, New Orleans, Louisiana_

They found themselves walking along a paved road—a trail—on either side of them, overgrown trees and ferns for as far as the eye could see. Hazy sunlight beamed forth in the murky distance, the pair noticing aged telephone wires—electrical cords—or were they…?

“ _Beads_ ,” Maggie breathed, as Harry nodded, just as intrigued, their upturned visages peering at the never-ending cords, strings, interlaced one atop the other. Hundreds upon _thousands_ of beads. They _really_ took their Mardi Gras seriously.

“Welcome to New Orleans,” a weathered sign read in fanciful script, as they traipsed further, thickets and underbrush soon replaced by what appeared to be double-gallery Esplanade dollhouses brought to life, and a quaint town in the style of nineteenth century French architecture, with strong Creole influences, not to mention a Moorish revival church and elegant ironwork balconies as far as the eye could see.

Laissez les bon temps roulez. _Let the good times roll._

Going down one street then another, they noticed the brightly-hued houses’ exteriors—cheerful seafoam green, dainty damask pink, daffodil yellow, and on the opposite side, a buttercup hued _endroit_ adorned with a French flag overhead.

“Harry,” spoke Maggie, “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore,” channeling a reference to Dorothy in “The Wizard of Oz.”

“ _Indeed.”_

_Chartres Street, New Orleans, Louisiana_

A streetcar ride later, they came face-to-face with La Pharmacie Francaise, its signpost claiming the spot to be a historical pharmacy museum.

Pushing the aged door open, a relic if there ever was one, they heard the tinkle of the overhead bell as a fresh wave of air conditioning hit. Directly within view was a grey marble bar table, vaguely resembling a soda shop stand of yore, various glass bottles of every which substance known to magic kind…

‘Ask for Aunt Sue,’ the neatly penned signage read, below a large life-like portraiture of a woman by the name of “Zue Zue St. Clair.” “ _Aunt Sue? Zue Zue?”_ Maggie whispered within the practically empty interior, wondering if a sorceress of some sort would make her theatrical, attention-seeking debut.

She waited a moment longer, but nothing happened. _How anticlimactic,_ she thought, as Harry swept past her to examine the myriad glass medicinal bottles on the sturdy oaken shelf, its ornamental column bearing the steady, intricate pattern of a unicorn’s horn.

Spotting a large glass bottle in the corner of the bar table, its dark, glossy appearance nearly obscured by the tall medicine stand to its right with its salt-and-pepper tarnished mirror and vaguely ominous corked concoctions, and the old school Coca Cola gold-etched porcelain tureen to its left, Maggie’s hand reached forward almost of its own volition—as she gasped aloud with a singular tremor—

_‘Cinq jours, alors, ma p’tite—five days—ou rester pour toujours,’ an aged woman recited in lilted Creole French, afternoon warmth melding into indigo twilight as she stirred a concoction of the darkest tar beneath the glistening glow of a full moon. Ambre Noir, the bottle’s script read—_

_“What is it, Maggie? What do you see?”_ Harry instantly flew to her side as she came to, bracing the countertop for support.

“Aunt Sue— _Zue Zue—”_ she began. “She was…a witch. A purveyor of _Ambre Noir_ —”

Harry’s eyes widened at hearing the final two words. “ _Black amber,”_ he murmured as Maggie confirmed his suspicions, continuing to stare at the now-aged bottle, cobwebs and all.

 _Not to mention…five_ …Maggie was suddenly struck with a horrifying thought. “Harry,” she asked slowly, afraid to hear the answer, “how many days has it been?”

“Days?” He tilted his head, puzzled. _Days after what, exactly?_

“Since Macy went inside the crystal?” she hurriedly clarified, tapping her fingers atop the marble countertop.

“Almost four. Why do you ask?”

“Harry, the woman—Zue Zue—said black amber only has five days—"

“Five days until?”

“Until…” Maggie searched her brain. “She said something—‘ _ou rester pour toujours’_ —Harry, what does that mean?” as he blanched in wide-eyed horror.

“It means…we must hurry and remove your sister from the black amber-addled crystal within the next 24 hours…or she’s trapped there. _Forever.”_

 _Oh no. Oh…no. Nonononono….this can’t be happening!_ She tried to breathe, but no oxygen could be found on ragged inhale, her cheeks losing their color by the second, an intense wave of fear—of complete and utter _doom—_ roiling upon her psyche—as she sank to the floor in a heap.

 _“Maggie, are you alright? Maggie, stay with me! Maggie!”_ Harry’s voice faded fast as she shut her eyes, body trembling, positively _seizing,_ as her heart rate sped, beating nearly out of her chest as a burst of heat emanated from within. Unaware of her environs, scenery melted and folded once more beneath their feet as Harry transported themselves back to the metallic safety of the Command Center.


	17. Of Lovelorn Longing

17 Of Lovelorn Longing

_“…[F]orgiveness…grant it in one breath…” -E.H. Hanson_

_Day 3, continued_

_Chartres Street, New Orleans, Louisiana_

_“Maggie, are you alright? Maggie, stay with me! Maggie!”_ Harry’s voice faded fast as she shut her eyes, body trembling, positively _seizing,_ as her heart rate sped, beating nearly out of her chest as a burst of heat emanated from within. Unaware of her environs, scenery melted and folded once more beneath their feet as Harry transported themselves back to the metallic safety of the Command Center.

_Moorland countryside—or was it? Scenery blended, a snow-mound hillside of song, and no sim card for her phone. Placed here, or wherever next, she would adapt—she must—first a hospital then hyacinths asunder, mysteriously packed bags for the other hemisphere. Australia for a cup of coffee. A flat white, it was called, a Christmas tree looming in the distance, ribboned and electric. Singapore for the sapphire butterflies. Austria, with the Mozart powdered wig advertisers of operatic theater—time had folded itself, a tesseract unfurled, as she fell to the floor in a heap._

_‘Exhaustion,’ the doctor said. ‘Rest more,’ stated the nurse in a crisp no-nonsense voice. Her checklist began as her eyes sprang open an hour later; gathering her bearings, her forehead covered in a cool washcloth, she found herself situated atop a bed identical to countless others._

_Once medically cleared, she wandered about town, peering through glossy glass-enclosed gold-embossed storefronts. Musikhaus Doblinger at Dorotheergasse, for blank sheet music, a stand, valve oil, and polish cloths for her brass instrument. The modern Buchhandlung Orlando bookstore at Liechtenstein Strasse for whatever ghost story she could find, for she found herself drawn to them. As if, she had within, ingrained in herself, a tradition—each time she traveled—buy a story of apparitions, of beings that came back, surprising the local populace._

_Buy books, a phone. Done and (eventually would be) done. A place to stay for the night? Or a place to read, if her airline itinerary had anything to say about it. Action items aplenty. She would stay here—she could—but her feet felt differently, as did her trumpet case and luggage. How could such non-sentient objects have the audacity to steer her forthwith?_

_Whatever it was, this soundless, noiseless, tasteless gravitational pull, her life, fantastic though it was, was no longer her own…And to New Zealand she was called, fingering her triquetra necklace, a silver adornment attached to a sliver of a chain. ‘Great-Aunt Laila,’ she was heard to whisper as the plane began its descent. Toward Victoria University. Toward a superb musical education of the highest caliber._

_Here, she was alone, wild, and free—_

_‘I’m back—' she murmured, though she did not understand why. This was not home. This was anything but home—_

_Command Center, SafeSpace, Seattle, Washington_

The vision faded away as something particularly noxious was thrust under her nose. “UGH!” She coughed several times as she rapidly came to. “Harry, what _was_ that?”

He tossed the odious bundle aside, regarding her apologetically. “Spirit of hartshorn. Otherwise known as ‘smelling salts.’ Which possess the powerful property to revive humans, see—”

“ _Can’t imagine how,”_ she muttered under her breath, not without sarcasm, as she stood shakily, realizing they were back in the Command Center, blinking and suppressing a shudder Harry knew all too well.

“You’ve _seen_ something,” he stated, as she nodded in response.

“I…I saw memories— _flashbacks—_ of a girl. _Laila_. She wore a necklace with the same symbol as the Book of Shadows. I…I think her mind’s been tampered with—she had a nosebleed. Or—like she had a second chance at life—”

Harry’s mind swirled with possibilities, each more farfetched and stranger than the next. _The Book of Shadows symbol was the triquetra—emblematic of The Charmed Ones. A second, potentially ill-gotten chance at life could only mean a necromancer had interfered, in this day and age. But the black amber…and the young man…and Macy…perhaps they were all tied together somehow?_ Contemplating how, exactly, was making even _his_ brain hurt, as he sank into the faded armchair nearby.

“Harry?” Maggie’s voice called out, uncertain. “What do you think it means?”

“It means…” he met her eyes, “…we have a lost Charmed One to track—whose fate, for various reasons we can only speculate, never came to fruition.”

Her mind raced. _A lost Charmed One?_ “H-how, Harry? I thought—” she gestured wildly, indicating Mel’s potions from days before, Macy’s faux fur-lined hoodie draped across a pillow, “I thought _we_ were the Charmed Ones—"

“Well,” he couldn’t help but postulate aloud, his inner professor shining through, “prophecy _is_ an inexact science—”

Maggie made to interrupt, but he held his hand up. _Please let me continue,_ he seemed to say. _Fine,_ she motioned. _So you were saying?_

He went on. “I have the sense she, this _Laila,_ and the gentleman in the simulation crystal with your sister, are somehow entangled. Though I have no idea _how—_ they seem about your age—and cannot be a family relation—”

She had an _aha_ moment. “You’re in love!”

Harry blushed. “I _beg_ your pardon?” Much as he appreciated her fast-growing empathic gifts, he hadn’t expected touch-free, spontaneous mind-reading to be one of them.

“I mean, _Anthony_. Say you’re in love,” she thought back to her vision of a hospital bed, “and your girlfriend’s dying. Wouldn’t you give anything to heal her?”

 _Oh. Right._ “Yes, I suppose—"

She began pacing as her thoughts developed into cohesive theories. “So what if, he consults Knansie the necromancer to bring her to life, and she wipes Laila’s memory and curses her to stay away from him somehow? Like, on the opposite side of the world? And in doing so—”

“— _Breaks the Power of Three_?” Harry finished, eyes wide. _Could this be possible?_

“And maybe, just _maybe,_ ” continued Maggie, “the guy you saw keeping Macy company came to the same place because they were both…” she searched for the appropriate word, though wanting to spare Harry further guilt. _Anguished? Tortured?_ “Deeply… _upset—”_

As Harry winced, knowing exactly how Macy had come to be so in the first place. _If only I hadn’t reached for that dusty book, if only I hadn’t been so accursedly foolish, if only I had the self-control—_ unpleasant flashbacks of cold lips and a cruel sneer came back once more to haunt him in that very moment.

Maggie touched his shoulder and gave the barest hint of a shudder. “Harry, you can’t keep beating yourself up about this. What’s done is done. We can only move forward,” as he wordlessly concurred. “Laila: I’ll have her tracked. As for Macy—”

“I’ll search Vera Manor’s attic,” Harry completed her sentence, recalling an earlier instance in which a certain bottle of essential oil labelled “Escape” caused a TV sitcom’s heartthrobs to leap offscreen and run amok. _Could that work? Only one way to find out…_ as he orbed to Vera Manor, leaving Maggie to collect her thoughts alone.

 _Phone a friend,_ or so those trivia shows went. _Or text an ex? Was this how things operated in the mystical realm these days?_ She could still recall his sailor costume from many months ago, buttoned-up and sharp, with a captain’s hat to complete the ensemble. His crimson shirt symbolizing his ardor of _her,_ in their time frolicking as college students, and— _she drew a sharp inhale_ —his descent—into _darkness._ They had been so close to achieving all their hearts desired, but it was not to be, for his wicked older brother had interfered so cruelly, so _needlessly,_ to sow unmitigated chaos and torment till kingdom come. _Could_ she forgive? _Would_ she forgive?

_Love at first sight—and only seconds for such a heart to shatter._

Recalling their ill-fated wedding, her hand just inches away from the ancient battle-worn blade as Godric summoned forth the memory of Zagan—Maggie remembered the deceit, the theft of the glowing neon blue apples from the slaughtered dryads, the attack on good, _kind-hearted_ Jordan— _thank heavens for Jordan—_

She scrolled past her contacts list, delving deeper into her search history. Eyes narrowed, she found her recipient’s name in a carefully-culled list of blocked callers. With a deep, headlong sigh, she proceeded to unblock with the click of a finger, then frowned as she began typing, deleting, and retyping yet again. _Do this for Macy,_ she told herself. _Be brave—for her._

_Track Laila. A Lost Charmed One. Victoria University, NZ. Keep her safe._

Maggie bit her lip, blinking hard to avoid even a hint of teardrop from staining her visage, before adding her final sentence, thinking of her burgundy ballgown and garnet-encrusted headpiece of that unfortunate night, both buried beneath a hope chest in Vera Manor’s attic—or otherwise hidden, per her directive to Macy and Mel, where she hoped to never lay eyes on it ever again.

_You owe me._

And… _sent._

Her head ached, not to mention her heart, for the stolen opportunities of what might have been—what _could_ have been—and what would never, _ever_ be.


	18. Of Essential Oil and Escape

18 Of Essential Oil and Escape

_“…Lay the year down softly…” -E.H. Hanson_

_Day 3 to Day 4_

_Attic, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington_

Harry recalled an earlier instance in which a certain bottle of essential oil labelled “Escape” caused a TV sitcom’s heartthrobs to leap offscreen and run amok. _Could that work? Only one way to find out…_

Materializing in Vera Manor’s attic, he took stock of the myriad luggage cases, faded-yet-ornate hope chests, parchment, books, bookcases, desks, and more, thoroughly regretting he had failed to acquire a detailed inventory of the chamber in which he stood. Perhaps, then, he would have avoided wasting whatever remaining time they had to rescue Macy of a perilous situation of his doing.

 _His_ doing. Not anyone else’s. It was _his_ fault.

 _How did he come to be their Whitelighter again?_ He rubbed his temple, trying his hardest to formulate a plan— _any_ plan—of action, one that did not involve cursing, screaming, or crying at the top of his lungs. _Truth be told,_ he mused to himself, _he was more a liability to the Charmed Ones than anything else. First Charity, then Abigael, then—this._ Sure, he shocked and awed them with his magician’s parlor trick, when they found themselves rope-bound to chairs in this very space. And of course he had his healing powers, a soft pearlescent glow with but a wave of his hand, a result of the Elders stripping away his other half—his—his supposedly _lesser, darker_ half.

Without the darkness, one fails to see the light—this he knew, and had read somewhere in his perusal of literature back in the day. Certainly, the attic was dimly-lit and goodness knew just _how_ many creatures had flown through, crows black as ebony, Knansie herself, and more. Spotting a pile of cartographer’s maps by a lean-to table, he began his search…

_Flashback_

_“What are you watching?” he approached his oldest charge, noticing her previously stormy visage had noticeably brightened—rapidly, almost curiously so._

_“Oh, it’s called Heaven’s Vice—" she exclaimed excitedly—_

_“No, never heard of it,” he shook his head, angling himself closer to the scent of cinnamon and cloves—of_ his _Macy—though he would never speak the words aloud, for fear of placing a jinx upon the universe—upon Vera Manor—the house which, for all intents and purposes, they mutually occupied. Harmoniously? He would like to think so, as all three ladies had poured compliment after compliment, of his delectable breakfast scones and Earl Grey Tea. He’d had nearly a century to perfect his culinary prowess, after all, and he felt it his duty to showcase the deliciousness of that which was British cuisine._

_“That’s because you weren’t a preteen geek in the late ‘90s,” she responded matter-of-factly, almost scientific in nature. He glanced at her laptop screen, wondering what all the fuss was about. Even if it was but a simple show, a paranormal escapist realm, he understood it to be important to the woman he craved so, in the deepest, darkest recesses of his soul—or the lighter parts, given he was but half a man, after what the Elders had put him through. ‘Tell me more, Macy,’ he wanted to say while reaching out a tentative forefinger to wrap a lock of her beguiling hair about._

_Noticing Harry seemingly tuning out—was he? Macy hurriedly provided a synopsis. “It’s about two brothers, Gideon and Levi, who also happen to be angels—” she bounced her shoulders excitedly as he gazed at her, noticing how happy such a simple pleasure made her. Please, Macy, I want to learn more—_

_“…and save mankind from evil…” Macy was rambling and she knew it—_

_“Sounds_ utterly _preposterous—” the words flew out of his mouth before he could stop himself, regretting them instantly. Blasted sleep deprivation. All I want is you, Macy—just—you—as he glanced once more at his love—though she would never know it. Not in this realm, nor even the next, if the Elders had anything to say about it._

And fast-forwarding to the present…nothing in the cartography bin, and the same was to be said of the sturdy carved cedar table. Harry was sure he would have found a secret compartment with the simple _revelio_ charm he had uttered just seconds before, but alas— _nothing._ He wracked his brain as several minutes turned into ten, ten into fifteen, and so forth. _Where are you, Escape essential oil? Wherever could you possibly be?_

He half-expected the utterance to work, much as how Macy’s discovery of her parents’ letters had, flying pots and pans and crevassed boxes and all. But, alas, a witch he most certainly was _not._ A couple of pillows caught his attention— _there were so many fragmented memories here—_ one of tangerine and canvas hues, the other— _he sniffed—_ bright blue and diamond-checkered, with a familiar scent of cinnamon. Observing the miniature bookcase behind it, he set to work freeing the tomes, hoping he was closer to finding the essential oil vial he so desperately needed…

_Flashback_

_Rather than yield to temptation of the most sensuous, hormonal kind, winding an arm around the melanin-hued woman to bring her forward into a surreptitious cuddle, he instead reached over and pressed the ‘play’ button. A bloodcurdling shriek emanated forth from the depths of the technicolor screen as Macy’s eyes glittered in merriment, falling upon Harry’s own visage, gauging whether he found the show to his liking._

_“I don’t think we’re in heaven anymore—” he heard a voice say. Was that Gideon? Or Levi? He pressed the ‘pause’ button, but didn’t want to give Macy ammunition to poke fun—how he was nearly a hundred years old and unable to tell one simple character from another scribbled trope._

_“The writing’s a bit lazy, isn’t it?” He frowned._

_“That’s their catchphrase!” protested she with a pout, as Harry emanated the barest of sighs._

_“Very well—” and the show resumed once more. “Just don’t stay up too late bingeing this nonsense,” as he rose from his seat, knowing that to do otherwise would mean giving into temptation. Far be it for him to be anything but a proper, upstanding citizen, he mused to himself, watching out of the corner of his eye as the woman’s shoulders bounced with a certain carefree lightness he hadn’t noticed before..._

_“Goodnight, Harry,” she did her best to suppress an eyeroll. She would win him over and soon, she knew._

_He paused beneath the attic’s threshold and turned. “Goodnight—” he swallowed the final word within. Love. Goodnight, love._

No luck within the bookshelf-in-miniature, as he threw an aged tome across the room in sheer frustration. “ _BLOODY HELL!”_

“H-Harry?”

He swiveled around, eyes wide, facing the middle sister, his other charge, her hair wavy and dark as midnight. 

Mel stepped forward into the filtered light of the attic’s octagonal window, brow furrowed, visage etched with concern. “Harry, are you alright?”

He swallowed hard; straightening his silk dress shirt with shaking, sweaty hands, he attempted composure, knowing he was failing miserably. “I-I’m fine, Melonie,” he answered curtly. _She can’t know. I can’t possibly tell her—she’d hex me into oblivion—_

“Are you looking for something?”

“Aren’t _you_ supposed to be at work?” _A terrible attempt at deflection, but worth a shot, perhaps,_ he thought to himself.

“Nice try, _Harry_ ,” Mel answered wryly. “I’m on my lunch break—not that it’s anyone’s business—”

“And you came to the attic on your lunch break?” _Christ, he needed to do better than this…_

“I was in the kitchen,” she began. “And I heard a noise. Well— _several._ Then some curse words I’ve never heard before in the modern English language. Sounded about 1940s to me…” Mel raised an eyebrow at Harry, who avoided her stare. After a moment’s pause, she glanced at the scattered tomes, the parchment, the pillows, the Heaven’s Vice DVDs… _Omigawd._

”Are you…” she breathed, a flicker of amusement crossed her visage, “…watching _Heaven’s Vice?”_

 _“Me?”_ His voice squeaked in surprise at a higher register than normal. _This_ was not the conclusion he expected Mel to reach, but for now, perhaps he would, in common parlance, _run with it._

“Um, _yeah,_ you—”

“Uhhhh…umm…. _errr…”_ Far be it for him to admit to such a thing. _Even if he did have a certain affinity for Gideon and Levi’s corny shenanigans._

Mel laughed. “It’s ok, Harry, I won’t tell a soul—”

He coughed indelicately, giving off a discomfited air. “ _Right_ —well—on _that_ note, Mel, I’ve been searching for the essential oil from that night—‘Escape’ I believe it’s called,” attempting to right his wrongs, albeit a roundabout manner. _One that didn’t involve invoking Mel’s wrath._ “You wouldn’t happen to have seen essential oil anywhere, have you?”

Rather than shake her head, she strode to an intricately-carved side desk he was sure he hadn’t seen before, as covered as it was by stacks upon stacks of books and chemistry set-like contraptions, and lifted its accordion-like enclosure, revealing sparkling glass test tubes, each labelled in Marisol’s impeccable handwriting. “Like this?”

His eyes lit up. “Exactly! Thank you _so_ much, Melonie!”

“Yeah, _yeah,_ ok,” she groused. “I gotta get myself a sandwich or I’ll be late _and_ hangry for the night shift—” as she hurriedly departed for the kitchen, most likely to fix herself a PB&J. _Not that any such product containing so many artificial ingredients had license to call itself a sandwich,_ thought Harry, as he rifled through the popped-out drawer of glass vials, each shinier than the next _._

Despite his countless decades spent in America, he still hadn’t fully acclimated himself to its processed spreads, even if they supposedly were high in protein and contained bits of—he inwardly cringed—‘ _real fruit_ ’—

Inhaling sharply, he gave a start as his fingers brushed against a familiar bottle.

‘ _Escape,’_ its label read.


	19. Of Firework and Flame

19 Of Firework and Flame

_“…Then sit with eyes turned skyward…” -E.H. Hanson_

_Crimson fabric—she knew this dress, her fingers winding their way from its one-shouldered styling, down, down, and further still, until reaching its base, as she tugged at its edges, feeling as though a wayward, clumsy colt as opposed to the well-educated (and comely) scientist she was._

_The hazy miasmic grey of the austere, modern bedroom she found herself in, its gauzy curtains shut, led her to believe she was elsewhere—not Vera Manor—but where? Through the darkness, she combed her way to the entryway, her thumb brushing against the polished metal sheen of what she surmised was a brass doorknob—or state-of-the-art handle, more like, as she hesitated, then twisted it ‘round—_

_It gave way, with a certain aching heaviness that she brushed off—ignored. Her eyes, after all, held a gaze only meant for Harry. This dress, for his unremitting, undeniable visual pleasure only. Her hand, she imagined, would be intertwined with his, as the barest hint of a smile danced upon her wanting lips…her twin flame, her twin soul. Harry. Her one wish, her one want._

_But there was no Harry, just an empty, dark oaken-hued corridor. “What the eff…” she muttered, turning toward her immediate left. Spotting a pristine, floor-to-ceiling panoramic view of high, snow-capped mountaintops, spindly pine trees too tall for words, and the ethereal, urbane glow of the vaguely suburbanite town far below, it suddenly hit her._

_She was in Aspen, Colorado._

_Continuing down the leftmost corridor, she made an immediate right, finding herself in the vaguely familiar high-ceilinged, expansive alcove she had spent that one less-than-memorable night some time before. Or had she? Memories piled upon false imprints of memories had made her doubt herself as of late._

_Based on what she understood of the male conundrum of her waking romantic personal life, she comprehended at once that this—whatever_ this _was—was not Harry. Which meant…_

 _A flicker of canvassed blur sped past, just outside her line of sight, as she swiveled in place, crimson stilettoes be damned. What_ was _that?_

_Julian?_

_“Julian!” she all but cried. “Julian, I want to go home,” giving chase to the ominous figure. “Please, Harry needs me!”_

_The figure uncloaked itself as she drew an audible gasp. Not Julian. “My,” the auburn-haired woman positively cackled. Vivienne, in the flesh. “Oh, aren’t you just the prettiest thing?” as she brandished a sword—_

_“The conqueror,” Macy gasped, as Vivienne reached for her neck, pinning her to the wall. “You’re…the…conqueror…”_

_Day 4_

“MACY!”

She gasped; her eyes sprang open, not to silvery shrouded surroundings, but rather, the sunny confines of her shared Siena dormitory. And _Antonio_ , who appeared as worried as ever a younger brother would be—in her imagination of course, as she had two sisters, no brothers, and had, until recently, believed herself an only child.

“You might be older, but you need looking after, too—” he managed to say after a few more moments had passed. Moments in which Macy scanned the frescoed art above her head and to her right, noticing the nondescript wall now included bright green wine grapes, pale robin’s egg blue clouds, and what appeared to be a darkly painted storm cloud in the distance, surrounded on all sides by hints of glassy rainbow.

“Well, not _supervising,_ more _protecting—”_ Antonio clarified after Macy tilted her head, coupled with a subtle raise of an eyebrow.

“Did you…?” Her voice trailed off, as she motioned to the newly illustrated fresco. _Did you paint this? While I was sleeping?_ He shook his head.

“Must be magic.” He stared at the storm cloud, gleaning its ineffable meaning, scrutinizing it to the very best of his ability. _If it meant what it meant, their time was soon drawing to a close…_

“What do you think it’s trying to tell us? _The art?_ ” Macy’s eyes emanated worry, of which Antonio dearly wished he could dispel. But he knew that was not his job, though he had already been tasked with many things within his formerly carefree life, each more difficult than the next.

“I think…it’s almost time for us to return home.”

_Command Center, SafeSpace, Seattle, Washington_

Escape essential oil: _check._

Map of Siena, Italy: _check._

Human anchor: _to be determined…_

Harry reviewed his checklist, which, though considerably shorter than ones he’d had in the past, came with various scenarios, each scarier than the next. _What if Macy couldn’t come home? What if we’re too late? What if she leaves—with the youthful gentleman? And she’s gone—forever?_

Examining the miniscule test tubes before him, he continued his study of the Escape essential oil; since he had the stuff, he might as well learn to reverse engineer the solution. _Or so he told himself, anyways. Anything to feel less of a useless lump of Whitelighter flesh._

Measuring out a droplet of oil, dividing it between four tubes, his mind drifted, imagining this could be enough to widen a chasm to the other side, to _her. Macy. His_ Macy, assuming a spark—a _flame_ —could be ignited just _so,_ to mimic the bolt of lightening that had appeared during that Heaven’s Vice incident so very long ago—

 _A spark—_ he gazed, transfixed—crackling with all its might—

A veritable _firework—_ which reached the end of its fuse, emitting a sickening _crunch—_

A slightly scorched finger later, he muttered curses under his breath. Running his finger under a faucet of distilled water, the cool, crisp liquid providing balm, he knew it was _Macy_ who was the scientist, not him. He imagined her in her pristine snowy lab coat _—_ he closed his eyes—

_He pictured the coiled curl of each and every one of her sumptuous mahogany tresses, spilling forth atop her shoulders as she deftly made use of a microscope to interpret her latest finding—microbiological, monster, or otherwise. She would, he understood, lose herself in a veritable trance, finding herself amongst the predictable-yet-elegant measurement tools and substances which came second nature to her. She would recite each known ingredient and interaction, neurotoxin or otherwise, using aged Germanic pharmaceutical terminology or Latin still, as he would stare in awe of the melanin-hued angel she was._

_Striding around the imagined table upon which she conducted her scientific examinations, he would listen in near reverie as her voice shone through the surrounding darkness. “The weight of 1 milliliter of pure water at 4 °C is 1000 micrograms, or 0.03381 fluid ounces.”_

_“Fluid ounces? European or American?” he would query, with a crinkle of his mouth, as Macy would catch herself with the faintest hint of rose-hued blush._

_“U.S. fluid ounces. American,” her answered would be. “Great catch, Harry. On top of your game, as usual—”_

_“I always am.” I have to be, Macy. For you. True, for your sisters as well. But I burn, Macy, my love—I burn for you, paraphrasing language gleaned from a modern-day Regency era TV show as of late. Perhaps then, he imagined, his wildest fantasies would come to fruition, her lovely form beckoning him to draw closer._

_“A burn? Oh Harry, how did you…?” She would touch his injured digit and he would let her, for he trusted everything about her, this sumptuous goddess, the embodiment of fire and light._

_“Heal me, Macy,” his speech would evolve into the deepest of murmurs, and she would acquiesce with those lips of hers, placing his finger within her mouth, sucking, her inner solvent washing all semblance of pain away—_

“HARRY!” He gave a start, cursing yet again as his knee met the table leg in a rather painful sort of way, realizing Maggie was upward, atop the metallic balcony, as she fast descended the staircase.

“W-what? I mean, _pardon?_ ” Common etiquette dictated he say _pardon,_ rather than the crass _what,_ and he was determined to maintain decorum in such matters, even if it _was_ the twenty-first century, and manners had gone the way of the wolves.

“You’re overthinking things.” Maggie approached the table—the four test tubes. Muttering a string of vaguely incomprehensible words, four more identical tubes appeared, each with the very same Escape essential oil substance within.

 _Aha! A cloning charm!_ “Excellent work, Maggie!” he praised his youngest charge as she gave her familiarly endearing shoulder shrug, before changing the subject.

“Daydreaming again, Harry?” She drew a wistful, sorrowful smile.

 _He could have denied it, but what was the use?_ Harry nodded.

“Of her?” _Macy? My sister?_

“Who else?”

Maggie drew a reassuring arm toward his shoulder, as she created a mental salve to alleviate his tension, his worry, his fear. _It will be ok. Relax. Breathe. You can do this._ Her positive energy and confidence radiated toward him as the strain in his appearance faded somewhat. “You need to stop beating yourself up over this, Harry—” and he knew she was right. “She’ll come home. You’ll bring her home. You understand that, right?”

He silently concurred, but then a vaguely unsettling thought occurred to him. “We need a human anchor.” _Who on earth would volunteer?_

A faint smile dotted Maggie’s lips. “You leave that to me. I know exactly who to ask—” and with that, she sped upstairs, through the shadowed brick mud room of sorts, and out to the brightly-lit confines of SafeSpace Seattle.

_Jordan._


	20. To Manifest a Destiny

20 To Manifest a Destiny

_“…As the night-time comes alive…” -E.H. Hanson_

_Day 4, continued_

_Command Center, SafeSpace, Seattle, Washington_

Escape essential oil: _check._

Map of Siena, Italy: _check._

Human anchor: _to be determined…_

A faint smile dotted Maggie’s lips. “You leave that to me. I know exactly who to ask—” and with that, she sped upstairs, through the shadowed brick mud room of sorts, and out to the brightly-lit confines of SafeSpace Seattle.

_Jordan._

_Jordan’s Gym, SafeSpace, Seattle, Washington_

The thrumming beat of Alicia Keys’ latest song, “Love Looks Better,” rang out, echoing across the wood laminate flooring, up toward the rafters of the elevated ceiling.

“Stance—hands up, elbows in, hips between your feet—” she made it to the top of the staircase, panting, as she heard Jordan’s booming voice ring out to the class he was currently teaching.

“ _Extend—”_

Demonstrating his position, he appeared lanky yet lightfooted and sure. “ _Jab—_ and— _exhale—”_ Jordan stopped short, spotting Maggie frantically gesturing for his attention at the opposite side of the transparent floor-to-ceiling glass walls. “Everybody take ten!” he called out; the group dispersed to the downstairs café.

Maggie made her way in moments later, combing her fingers through her hair to ensure her race down the corridor and up the stairs hadn’t mussed her tresses. _This was_ Jordan _,_ she told herself. _Cool bro-lighter-chummy-with-Harry, Jordan, and all. No need to get yourself fancied up for a man—even if he’s a super overachiever with medico-legal aspirations—but_ damn _he looked like a tall drink of water—_

“’Sup, Vera?” he inquired with a lift of his eyebrow.

“I need…” she paused, fishing for the appropriate word. _A mortal._ “A man—"

“Thought you were better than that, Ms. Independent,” Jordan’s reply came with teasing eyes as she felt herself blush the faintest pink. “Them boxing lessons and—”

“A _human—”_

 _Oh. Ohhhhhhhh._ “Another conquest?” Realization dawned upon his comely visage, as he stroked his stubbled goatee.

“Sort of. I need— _we_ need—a human anchor—”

“An anchor? Like, on ships?”

“Kind of. Macy went cross-dimensional Gone Girl and it’s up to us to bring her back in the next twenty-four hours or else— _or else—”_ her voice caught, unable to continue as Jordan reached over to touch her shoulder in reassurance. “She’s stuck. _There. Forever—"_

“ _I’ll do it.”_

She swallowed hard, blinking fast to erase any hint of burgeoning tears threatening to spill forth of her eyelids. “Are you sure you’re up for this? It’s ok to say no…”

“Yeah, assuming you could give me a hand?” Jordan motioned to his wrists as she nodded, strategically placing two fingers against his pressure point; he proceeded to unwind his Mueller athletic sports tape from that wrist, much like those mummy films of yore, then the other, with the dexterity of a budding neurosurgeon. Except, of course, Jordan wasn’t _quite_ as cursed from the grave as he was weeks before, and thanks to the Charmed Ones, had in fact a brand-new lease on life as of late. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” she breathed, gazing up at his surprisingly intense visage. _What had she seen in Parker, anyhow?_

“Vera,” he began, suppressing the urge to cradle her chin upward to deliver the tenderest, sweetest, most soulful kiss a mortal might bestow, “you saved my life multiple times, plus there’s zombie-palooza, and dead man walking by Harry’s hand. What’s another adventure?”

Maggie couldn’t help but laugh. “True, that.”

“Anything to balance the scales of justice, right?”

Walking toward the front entrance, he locked up shop, placing a sticky note atop the door stating a family emergency had come up, hoping Maggie wouldn’t get weirded out by that particular choice of wording.

_Family._

_Command Center, SafeSpace, Seattle, Washington_

“Look who’s here!” Maggie’s voice rang out, reverberating along the concrete confines.

“Jordan!” Harry exclaimed. He glanced at the pair curiously. _Who asked whom? But then again, with a Charmed One’s livelihood on the line and a deadline to beat, did it really matter?_

“Volunteering as tribute,” Jordan replied, referencing a certain fictional woman by the name of Katniss Everdeen.

“It’s ok, he’s been briefed,” proffered the youngest Charmed One by way of explanation, as she began studying the map of Siena, Italy currently taped to the blackboard. “I’ll see if I can get a read on this—”

“Remind me again why we’re not asking Mel?” piped Jordan, as Maggie shot him a _look._ Spotting her visage, he put both hands up in mock defeat. “Ok, ok, forget I even—"

She resumed her cartographical examination of Italian topography. Touching the Escape essential oil earlier, her mind had had yet _another_ vision—

 _Mel and Abigael, both dressed in flowing nuptial gowns, kissing within a stately New York City luxury apartment. Mel’s was an ornate emerald brocade, and Abigael’s a sumptuous dark swan number, feathered and full; together, they_ _held a little girl’s hand, standing before beaming friends and family, magical and non-magical alike. Dark braids, sun-kissed glow, spritely mischievous eyes, the child had. A flash, then, of the girl’s provenance—a tropical island—an auburn-haired witch named Morgana—and an expedited adoption of mystical, mysterious origin—_

Maggie’s eyes had sprung open after said vision. _Mel? And…_ she exhaled sharply through her teeth… _Abigael? Married? With…a kid? Omigawd. Oh. My. Gawd. Oh…wow._ Far be it for her to tamper with the sands of time, past, present, or future. _The less questions, the better,_ she decided in that moment. _Nobody must know, to keep everyone’s fates truly aligned—least of all, Mel._ From her early childhood years to present, she understood her older sister to be stubborn, of tenacious intellect, _unforgiving_ , even— _Ray came to mind—_ and by extension, more than capable of holding grudges, with the impeccable memory of a matriarchal elephant.

 _Long to remember but slow to forget—_ or so the adage went—

A lifelong resentment was likely. If Mel found out her oldest sister nearly perished due to Abigael’s ill-gotten advances toward an emotionally vulnerable Harry, she would blame the half-witch and Whitelighter both—likely more so the Sussex spitfire.

If _she_ , Margarita Vera, read her vision right, the potential fallout from such bitterness would lead to an acute imbalance of good versus evil that would have been otherwise alleviated by the two women’s marriage. Though Maggie could not quite comprehend how, this would end the Power of Three, thereby concluding their reign as the three Charmed Ones. _Potentia Trium_ lost forever, due to irreconcilable differences. _Which meant…_ she took a deep breath, applying her knowledge of behavioral psychology, and sociological practices…

In turn, Laila would become the next Charmed One with her sisters, and _their_ own powers—Maggie’s and Mel’s and Macy’s—would cease to exist forever. _And what would become of Harry?_ Would he feel duty-bound to the next Charmed Ones, leaving Macy and themselves forever to train and guide their successors?

Maggie shook her head. _No. I can’t let that happen._ Her own empathic abilities lent herself to unwanted catastrophizing at the worst possible moments, but it was impossible to ignore the fact that the situation facing them all was as dire as it could possibly get.

Realizing her hand was still atop the map, she removed it and turned around, staring at Jordan for the briefest of seconds before pointedly angling her head toward Harry, now hunched over the myriad miniature vials of Escape essential oil.

 _Interesting…_ He strode toward the hunched figure. _Maggie’s Whitelighter._ “Dude—Harry—” he muttered under his breath, as Harry gave a start. “Can we chat? _Man to man?”_

The Brit sighed. “ _If_ we must—” before accompanying Jordan to the opposite end of the cavernous chamber, toward the darkened side tunnel.


	21. Making the Mundane Beautiful

21 Making the Mundane Beautiful

_“…All that’s been is over…” -E.H. Hanson_

_Flashback_

_Tight mahogany braids._

_Tight, stock-still, stubborn braids._

_Those woven tresses were the first recollection he had of what he believed would be his adversary._

_Despite, or in spite of, matching his height to the millimeter, she was the most frustrating student he’d ever had. Entering swiftly, heather gray laced tank and dark shorts, her figure was one among a sea of young, up-and-coming urbanite professionals. They were all the same, after awhile._

_Tall. Hourglass-shaped. Curvaceous somewhat. Smart. Wealthy, or soon to be. Didn’t matter how—not to mention an expert in something strangely specific, like subterranean microbiology, in the case of this particular female. Practically chomping at the bit, she was. A veritable thorn in his side, this particular part of the day, as she made misstep after misstep, stomping on his toes at one point, claiming it was an accident, as her neck craned elsewhere, as if on lookout for an accomplice._

_But, from his own behavioral surveillance training in the armed forces, he understood something was afoot; she readied her stance, restlessly shifting her weight, one foot to the other, with piercingly shadowed eyes as though she had seen things that could make a grown man cry._

_He stopped in his tracks. Who_ was _this woman?_

_“C-can we try sparring?” Her voice rang out as he tilted his head, puzzled. This wasn’t a normal beginner’s request. This seemed…dangerous? He wasn’t sure. A terrible idea? Maybe. Weird? Definitely._

_Still, sighing headlong, he knew who his benefactors were—Julian included, as SafeSpace founder. Far be it for him to antagonize, to bite the hand that kept the lights on for him and his colleagues. “You sure?”_

_“Positive!” Come at me, she seemed to say, as he detected an air of nervousness…trickery…deceit? So on he went, with little choice in the matter. ‘You’ve got this, J,’ he muttered to himself—jab-jab-throw—jab—jab—_

_“Over there!” she cried as he looked past her shoulder to a pale-faced man. Who_ was _that? And less than a minute later, found himself reeling from a swift-hooked punch to the nose. The hell?_

_This woman was officially the bane of his SafeSpace existence._

_Grumbling, he determined as much, observing in the limited time her propensity for dishonesty and inability to adhere to logical direction. Jealousy, too, judging by the elongated glances she threw upon the man whose hands had been splayed, however brief, upon the polished glass floor-to-ceiling window._

_Clearly, this was a lover’s spat, and she was here to make him jealous. To realize all he missed out upon. Of course, he, Jordan Chase, wasn’t without agency himself; he wasn’t anybody’s pawn, least of all hers, and he wasn’t about to get in the middle of this lover’s spat. Not if he could help it._

_“This lesson is over.”_

_Side Tunnel, Command Center, SafeSpace, Seattle, Washington_

Massaging his jaw, he thought back to the first time he met Macy. Memorable? Yes _—for all the wrong reasons._ He could still feel twinges up his cheekbone—the _malar_ bone, whenever he overexerted himself during training sessions. _He didn’t deserve that side-hook, and she knew it._

Jordan, on principle, never believed in second chances. Once a person showed you who they were, _believe them._ Or so the saying went. Typically with his long memory, he would have had nothing to do with such a person—an unfair _puncher—_ were it not for the poltergeist Swan incident, and his own cursed self gaining a new lease on life.

_Thanks to the Charmed Ones._

Including, for better or worse, _Macy._ Granted, in the days and weeks since, they had grown a bit friendlier, but he made sure never to stand beside her directly if he could help it. Sure, he wanted to make it to eighty— _pipe dream or no—_ and preferred to do so with an unblemished face.

“Jordan, what _is_ it?” He turned to face the man from his earlier recollection. _Harry._ Together, the unlikely pair stood in the miasmic bluish shadows, surrounded on either sides by concrete walls and underground piping.

“ _Macy.”_

Harry bore a perplexed expression. “What _about_ Macy?” as Jordan stepped closer, now no more than two feet away, for fear of being overheard by Maggie.

“’Scuse my French, but _what the hell did you do this time?”_ he all but hissed.

“I _beg_ your pardon— _this_ time?” The Brit sounded extremely affronted by this accusation. _Appeared to be_ , more like; both Jordan and he knew it was an act.

“The Macy I know punches _above_ her weight class and doesn’t run from a fight—heck, she _starts_ fights—I _saw_ you two—”

Harry couldn’t tell if the man standing before him was referencing Macy’s surreptitious punch, or everything that came after. The intimate looks between his pale, chestnut-haired self and the woman whose melanin visage was encircled by the loveliest mahogany curls. _Both? Neither?_ He groaned. “This is neither the time, nor the place—”

“Harry.” _Bro, you’re deflecting—_

The Whitelighter massaged his temple, staring at the hardened ceiling, blinking rapidly as he composed his thoughts. Seconds, then minutes passed by, while pipes along the corridor dripped and creaked to their own urbane rhythm. “ _I was an arse…”_ he muttered, mostly to himself.

“Come again?”

“ _I WAS A BLOODY ARSE!”_ Harry roared, then quieted almost immediately as he found himself in Jordan’s arms. A brotherly embrace, if ever there was one. “I was an _arse…”_ as he sniffed, wiping a couple of stray tears away with the swipe of his hand. He broke away, pacing, and Jordan let him, comprehending this was the way the Brit typically gathered his thoughts— _though unadvisedly so. Holding everything in to the point of implosion wasn’t the healthiest way of managing emotional health, but that was a lesson for another day. Maybe he’d introduce the Whitelighter to Tai Chi once everything settled down…_

“What happened?” Jordan finally asked, sometime later.

“I…l suppose, using your _weight class_ analogy…I…punched _under_ my weight class…”

“And how’d _that_ go?” Given where they were and the situation they found themselves, Jordan didn’t have to ask, but he figured he might as well be thorough. _See where things stood, and all._

“I regretted it from the moment I even tried—and Macy— _she—_ I cannot imagine how, but—" Harry recalled the frigid lips, the cold smile, his own grimace, the creak upon the upper stairwell balcony he realized now was not a mere figment of his imagination.

“She found out?” _Oh, dude. Duuuuuuuuude. Oh man…that’s effed up…_

Harry nodded, as dejected as could be. Much as Jordan wanted to remonstrate on the Whitelighter’s abject stupidity, he could tell the guy was as remorseful as could be.

“Dude,” began Jordan, “she _really_ liked you. Why didn’t you give her a shot?”

To this, Harry had only a specter of an answer. “I thought I’d be punching _above_ my weight class,” he ruefully responded. “She’s a Charmed One. When I met her, she moved objects with her mind. Then, she channeled fire. I have since come to realize…she _is_ fire.”

“Dude, write that down, and you’ve got yourself a love letter,” he couldn’t help but remark. “But why don’t you think you’re on the same playing field as her?”

“I’m not what she wants—”

Jordan gave him a quizzical expression. “ _Aren’t_ you? Last I saw, you couldn’t keep your eyes off each other—” as Harry turned a faint shade of pink.

“You misunderstand me, Jordan. I—I can’t be what she _needs.”_

“Oh? And what’s that?”

_She needs someone strong, sturdy, who won’t jeopardize the sisterhood with foolhardy ill-fated impulses—someone steadfast to the core, to ensure a danger-free existence—_

“An unblemished bloke without a painful, half-life history like mine. She wants _care_. She deserves _happiness._ She needs _strength—_ ” Jordan chuckled, much to Harry’s consternation. “What’s so _blasted_ funny about _that_?”

The younger man shook his head. “Harry, you underestimate yourself. Look— _dude—_ you’re more or less immortal. You can heal anyone instantly while mentoring three powerful women. You understand Macy in a way nobody else can—in Maggie parlance, ‘you speak _nerd_!’—and while you’ve put me in crazy-ass situations, you’ve always come through in the end. So in short, with _you_ , Macy is cared for. With _you_ , she can learn her strength. With _you_ , she can be really happy— _if_ you let it happen.” He peered into the Brit’s visage. “ _Will you?”_

Harry mulled this over silently for the next several moments as pipes continued to creak and clatter. “What if it’s too late?” He thought of Jordan’s remark some days ago about ‘spoiling a soup.’ _Was it a gumbo or New England Clam Chowder? A Chinese hotpot or a French mussel soup?_ Sometimes he had the tendency to become lost, positively _mired_ in his own thoughts swirling within his brain, the inverse of Macy’s outward ramblings he always found so endearing.

_Somehow, though it was a mystery to him, Macy made even the mundane, beautiful._

“You and Macy? It’s _never_ too late for love as timeless as what that could be.”

“You’re certain? _Absolutely_ sure?”

“Nothing’s totally guaranteed,” Jordan replied. “I mean, on the flip side, look at me, I was supposed to be six feet under—but thanks to you and the ladies—I’m still kicking. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?”

“Right.” Harry paused, then continued speaking. “And thanks for the pep talk, Jordan, I found it truly of value.”

“Happy to help, sarge, as always.”

“ _Indeed.”_

The pair departed the dank hallway for the brightly lit main chamber of the Command Center, and Maggie.


	22. The Twinness of Souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maggie's empath powers expand; note that going forward, things may shift away from canon in some odd and unexpected ways...

22 The Twinness of Souls

_“…And a new year has arrived…” -E.H. Hanson_

_Side Tunnel, Command Center, SafeSpace, Seattle, Washington_

The pair departed the dank hallway for the brightly lit main chamber of the Command Center, and Maggie.

_Balcony, Palazzo, Siena, Italy, Simulation Crystal_

She watched— _they_ watched—as the sky grew ominous, clouds crackling with the heat of a thousand lightning bolts, matching the slow-growing fresco adoring their shared dormitory wall. “ _W-what’s happening?”_ she whispered, unable to look away.

“It’s time—” Antonio’s voice rang out amid the rising wind, rippling through the miasmic cloud of crimson, tangerine, cerulean, and violet. _Ochre too—a tawny yellow-amber-brown._

“Time?” She stopped short, spotting the vineyard in the distance, its threadbare twigs bearing surprisingly sumptuous fruit, sprouting tendrils upon tendrils, growing, _lengthening_ by the second—“time for what?”

“A decision,” clarified Antonio. “Whether to leave these Siena, Italy confines. Whether you want Harry—where you want to go—how you want to live your life—”

“It’s too much! I-I’m _scared!_ ” Macy shrieked, as the whistling gusts grew stronger, Braxton Hicks of a metaphysical sort, testing and thrumming, pulsating and easing, pressurizing—what if she chose _wrong?_ What if Harry really _was_ with Abigael this entire time? What if she surrendered the serenity of the simulation crystal for a world of unmitigated horror, and worse still—seeing Harry and Abigael— _married—_ she shivered involuntarily—with— _kids?_

“ _CHOOSE!”_

“I…I _can’t!”_ And before Antonio could voice further opinion or guidance, Macy broke away, racing through the courtyard halls, now devoid of passerby and student alike, her mahogany curls floating about her as her costume transformed from thick, sturdy Milanese leather boots to close-toed black canvas espadrilles, her all-purpose slacks and tee to a casual-but-elegant denim _blouson_ dress, flowing and flaring in artistic, _chiaroscuro_ fashion, arm outstretched much like Andrew Wyeth’s painting, “Christina’s World,” egg tempera on gessoed panel, reaching for a house, a piece of hope, the corporeal existence of which she knew not.

_Command Center, SafeSpace, Seattle, Washington_

_How do we buy more time?_ Maggie drummed her manicured nails atop the center table—the _laboratory_ table, it was typically called, as Macy had devoted many an hour to hybrid magic-science projects, each more intriguing than the next. But that was _then._

 _We need another Macy, another Harry!_ She thought back to Julian, who was no doubt expecting a second—or dare she say—a _third_ date, of her oldest sister, who had zero feeling toward the goateed man. _None whatsoever,_ because her sister’s heart belonged to another. To _Harry._

 _Glamours plus cloning…serum…_ she paced around as Harry and Jordan approached the herbal section further down, no doubt removing concoctions from the rickety cabinet in the hopes of discovering a solution to their multifaceted quandary. She turned to the powdered substances before her, glittering obscenely, as if mocking her for her troubles. A serpentine colored bottle, and another of glittering autumn hue, vaguely smelling of pumpkin spice and Autumnal Equinox—

She screamed in frustration as waves of cerebral energy emanated outward from her cortex in steady, unyielding undulations. Suddenly clutching her forehead, she became aware of a slow-but-steadily burgeoning pressure, of one—or _two—_ twin forces, unmitigating, _unrelenting,_ wondering if this was, perhaps, an empath’s unceremonious end—

‘ _And this is how I die,’_ Maggie muttered to herself, vaguely harboring regret about a certain SafeSpace gentleman some meters away from her at present—the unsaid feelings, not to mention surreptitious glances that had passed between them in moments, days, and even weeks past— _why had she pushed him away, anyhow? They could have had more time—more hours beneath Vera Manor’s trellised tealights—more laughter, more joy—why was she such a—and it’d been all_ her _idea—'take things slow,’ she said—‘let’s be friends,’ she said—I’m not ready—but when, if not now? If not us, then who?_

As a _crack_ upon the oxygenated air burst forth, causing the Escape essential oil vials to vibrate in place, though luckily, none of its prized contents spilled over. _My heart,_ she imagined. _It’s splitting—it couldn’t handle—Parker’s deceit—SafeSpace transport—the Darklighter—and now—Macy—gone—_

_“Oh my Lord—”_

“ _Aw shiiiiiiiii—”_

_Harry and Jordan._

Moments passed…seconds…minutes more…as the drone of creaking pipes ensued from the far corner corridor where the guys had emerged from earlier.

 _Which meant_ …she was, apparently… _alive._

To test this theory, she pinched her own arm. _Hard._ “Owww!” _Yup, definitely alive,_ she mused to herself, massaging her limb. “Guys, I _still_ need to figure out how to create alibis for Macy—you too, Harry—”

“Um. Maggie,” ventured Jordan in an oddly disquieting tone—

“ _I think you just did—”_ Harry completed the guy’s sentence, as Maggie, curious to what both men were glancing upward at, walked over, following their line of sight, gasping headlong at two figures situated atop the metal balcony. _Oh….my…..gawd….what the…_

And it hit her.

_Twin souls._

She recognized a familiar ponytail of curly mahogany hair on one—a female wearing an ebony-hued dress. Not to mention—she stared—coiffed, chestnut hair on the other—a man, dressed in a navy silk shirt and work-appropriate slate-grey slacks.

_She just created illusion-based twin souls—temporary clones—_

_Of Harry and Macy._

“Well, _Margarita Vera,”_ Harry uttered low, in a reverential tone, “I _do_ believe your powers have just expanded,” as Jordan nodded in silent agreement.

_Stairwell and Balcony, Command Center, SafeSpace, Seattle, Washington_

The two figures soon flickered away, but this gave Maggie an idea. “What if we— _I—_ generate these illusion twin souls? That way, in case we can’t bring Macy back within the five-day window, we can at least buy time till we do?”

“Excellent idea, Maggie,” breathed Harry, still overcome by the appearance of _himself_ and Macy, even if they were mere empathic projections. He noticed their metaphorical dance as they walked in circles slowly, with a certain studied ease, akin to the majestic mating dance of swans in all their splendor, before his own illusion had reached forth a shoulder to clasp _her_ projection close, as he pointed out objects up in the air— _perhaps they were stargazing_?

Maggie did a brief shoulder-lift, which he knew so well. “I knew you’d think so.”

He smiled, allowing, for once, his imagination to run away with him, absconding long into the night. Even if there were no stars, for the trio were in the bare confines of SafeSpace Seattle, the image—this… _mirage—_ gave him _hope_ …hope for a vastly-improved tomorrow. _Hope for a better future._

_‘What do you want, Harry?’ he imagined Macy asking as he visualized himself standing beside her in a place only they could go—capturing their wildest dreams—a wrought-iron Parisian lookout with Sauvignon and a bouquet of roses, one night, perhaps—an Italian prima galleria at a masquerade ball, the next—a Maltese gallerija amid mulled wine and folk music, a week later—having taken the initiative, in his own mind at least, to delve into their shared romance headlong, to uncover and unravel its multi-faceted mystery._

_Reaching toward her cinnamon-scented curls, he would close his eyes, inhaling deeply of the woman he so cherished and had come to love in the days, weeks, and months he had laid eyes upon her beauteous countenance. ‘You…’ he would pause for emphasis as Macy’s cheeks would turn a dusky rose, as he plotted and planned exactly how he would kiss every fiber of her very being, his body yearning for her own—his ministrations starting with her luminous visage as he would plant a hot kiss upon her smooth, silken forehead._

_‘I want…for us…to be…together…’_

_Balcony to Vineyard, Siena, Italy, Simulation Crystal_

Macy’s denim _blouson_ dress billowed and flared in the windstorm as she pressed forth, shielding her eyes from possible debris, recalling her college TA’s laboratory tutorial on protection of bodily extremities. _Protect your head at all costs,_ the sonorous voice droned. _But most of all, protect your eyes—_ with a tap atop his temple, inches away from the area in question, as if for emphasis—

 _“CHOOSE!”_ This time, it wasn’t Antonio’s voice she heard, but a louder bellow, all-encompassing, causing the earth beneath her to reverberate and miniature grape buds to vibrate, their leaves fast-shedding their bright, peridot leaves in shaking fronds, as she tripped on loose loam soil, once, then _twice,_ its mix of clay, sand, and silt crumbling beneath her canvas espadrilled feet.

“HARRY!” she screamed into the whirling ether—

Her fists beat mercilessly upon a gnarled tree in the next moment, its branches contorted almost as if cursed in grief, reminiscent of the poor, unfortunate dryads, their fruit so haplessly stolen. Julian was a passing phase, but _Harry—_ oh, _Harry—_ with Harry, she craved _permanence._

“HARRY— _I CHOOSE YOU!”_


	23. Of Espadrilles and Escape

23 Of Espadrilles and Escape

_“Race…to the river/Where you’d buried who you’d been…” -E.H. Hanson_

_Day 4 to Day 5_

_Vineyard, Siena, Italy, Simulation Crystal_

“HARRY!” she screamed into the whirling ether—

Her fists beat mercilessly upon a gnarled tree in the next moment, its branches contorted almost as if cursed in grief, reminiscent of the poor, unfortunate dryads, their fruit so haplessly stolen. Julian was a passing phase, but _Harry—_ oh, _Harry—_ with Harry, she craved _permanence._

“HARRY— _I CHOOSE YOU!”_

The wind died down instantly, _likely because,_ she surmised to herself, _she had climbed_ — _or_ crawled— _upwards_ , toward the hilly apex, toward the eye of the storm— _the place where all wind was naught_.

At least, that’s what her logical, cerebral self would have hypothesized. The alternative was too… _strange._ How was it possible—how _could_ it be possible—for a simulated environment to be free-thinking? _Sentient? Animate and alert?_ She banished the unsettling thought from her mind as she absorbed peace—

_Serenity._

_Quiet._

Unclenching her fists, she ran her hands along the rough-hewn tree bark, as if deciphering the most mystical of braille lettering, before standing upright, her back to the well-worn tree. She meticulously surveyed her surroundings, as the _komorebi_ light flittered between the elevated branches some meters away. _Komorebi,_ the Japanese word for brightness flickering between trees. _‘How elegant…and poetic,’_ she imagined Harry would say, in that conversant crinkled half-smile of his, equal parts enigmatic and enthralling.

This scenery, too, felt oddly familiar to her soul, harkening back to her intake of that which was the Source. A powerful woman, she was silent no more—no longer beholden to Elders on pedestals—no longer answerable to invisible forces of light—of darkness. _All there was—was truth,_ she sensed, her body aglow in amber, crimson, and gold, her eyes an unnerving auburn.

 _For that impregnable moment, she simply—_ was.

It had only been minutes—or _seconds_ before—she broke past the mystical flame barrier encircling a similar _arbre,_ where her youngest sister was restrained against her will. Macy, upon absorption of _it—_ found herself the willing arbiter of justice, as her fisted flame catapulted with the dark garb of Parker’s father, his prostrate form enveloped in her heinous heat, until he was—simply put— _no more._

As smoldering ashes dissipated into the gentle zephyr, she became _herself_ once more, eyes reverting to as they were, her body virtually unchanged. Turning her gaze to Harry, Mel, and Maggie, she registered their shock— _or was it fear?_ She was not quite sure, in that particular point in time, _but no matter_ , her inner voice had said. _There is unfinished business—_ and she vanished to make haste, to complete the cyclical doing and _un-_ doing, the making and the rending, the tearing, and conglomeration, of the universe’s very soul. _For she was, she knew, equal parts destructor and healer._

 _Beginnings were no longer such—middles and ends no longer held significance. And what of climaxes still? Everything,_ she understood, _was entirely cyclical—infinitely, celestially so._

_Fire and karma, rolled into one._

A certain La Puma musical came to mind—“One Bad Apple.” The battle of the sexes, in which God was…a _woman_. Having brightened the crimson sky to a watery robin’s egg blue, silenced the deafening screams of human torment, and turned back time… _was this how it felt like? Omniscience? Omnipotence?_

However, as she entered Vera Manor time and time again, each vignette more heartrending than the next—the absence of Mel, the sputtered speech of Marisol before her collapse— _was it supposed to be as tragic—as lonely—as isolating—as this?_

Her innermost insecurities had nearly swallowed her whole, as she spent time, hours upon hours later, in Vera Manor’s attic, ghastly gusts tunneling through jagged octagonal window glass. _“Stay away from me!” I am too dangerous. I am too powerful. I am unlovable. Everyone—_

She choked on her words. _Everyone leaves me._

But one sister, then the next, screamed assurances into the terrifying, torrential wind, their bodies parallel to the oaken floor, their grip upon the shelving never once wavering—

_“We will never leave you!”_

_More words,_ needed _words, words of strength, of being at her side, forevermore—her eyes softened, meeting Harry’s own—_

_And you, Harry?_

_“Always,” he proclaimed._

Tears flowed freely then, as she collapsed in a heap. It was enough for her psyche, such that the wind died down. A magical wave of the hand and everything was restored to its rightful place—broken glass mended, shattered doorframes repaired, and _she—_ ready to begin the day anew. After, of course, dividing the Source into three separate fragments and hiding them every which part of the world, upon which Harry performed a memory erasure. _No person should have that much enervating power._

_And that was that._

A pond glimmered in the distance, it too, swirling in glassy glow, of crimson, ochre, and sapphire. _Was it a function of this simulated atmosphere, that once-hidden memories tended to bubble themselves up to the surface?_

 _“Twin souls,”_ she heard a voice utter from the great— _beyond? Above?_ And was that— _Maggie?_ The oldest Charmed One thought back to her doctoral course studies of the blood-brain barrier’s impenetrability. _Was Maggie’s voice emblematic of such—puncturing—of a parallel, otherworldly design?_

An envelope dropped from the distant clouds— _cumulus and cirrus…or cumulonimbus?—_ landing squarely at her feet, a recognizable waxen navy seal atop its vacuum-sealed perimeter.

_Alba levi litterae._

Removing her black espadrille shoes, she sat beneath the tree, which sprouted _more_ apples—this time crimson, striated with shimmering gold, positively _glittering_. Methodically tearing open its seam, a tiny bit of parchment flew out, which Macy deftly caught with a flick of her wrist.

_Be patient, love. Arriving soon. Home, soon._

_-Always yours, Harry_

Her vision blurred as she swept away at droplets pearling at her slivered-moon eyelids. ‘ _Always yours,’_ he’d written _._ “I…am… _his—”_

“’Bout time—” a rustle of vineyard branches later, as Macy gave a start, then realized it was Antonio.

She bit back a smile, patting the empty space next to her. Rather than coarse loam soil, she sat atop an Ascot forest plaid-printed picnic blanket. “There’s room for one more—”

“Awesome, I’m starving—” as he brandished a picnic basket, filled with thick, mottled rosemary-olive focaccia bread, olive oil, Sopressata salami, and other comestibles, to Macy’s questioning glance. “They go well with apples,” he stated by way of explanation, as Macy began to understand where this was headed.

“We’ve got a long, exhausting day ahead of us…” she mused aloud, trailing off.

“But first—we _feast_.”

Macy grinned, reaching for a knife to slice the focaccia. The couscous-stuffed Portabella mushrooms smelled delectable, and she knew the olive oil was as fresh as could be. _The men in her life always knew a well-fed Macy was a happy Macy._


	24. Politesse and Amplifiers Anonymous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry just wants to hold Macy's hand. Is that too much to ask?

24 Politesse and Amplifiers Anonymous

_“And let the earth erode/All that was innocent and green…” -E.H. Hanson_

_Day 4 to Day 5_

_Vineyard, Siena, Italy, Simulation Crystal_

“We’ve got a long, exhausting day ahead of us…” she mused aloud, trailing off.

“But first—we _feast_.”

Macy grinned, reaching for a knife to slice the focaccia. The couscous-stuffed Portabella mushrooms smelled delectable, and she knew the olive oil was as fresh as could be. _The men in her life always knew a well-fed Macy was a happy Macy._

_Command Center, SafeSpace, Seattle, Washington_

Hours later, Maggie had successfully managed to maintain the empath twin soul projections (“ _twins”_ ) for more than fifteen minutes—more than half an hour—more than forty-five minutes—and finally, more than an _hour._ The last several times were aided by various amplifier potions and herbs found by Harry in the rickety wood cabinet, not to mention Jordan’s run to SafeSpace’s café, returning soon after with vegan falafel pitas— _“gluten free, vegan, dairy free—”_ according to Swan calling out after his speedily departing figure.

“These really are _quite_ delicious, I simply _must_ have the recipe,” Harry remarked, impressed at the scrumptious eatable laid before him, wiping a bit of tzatziki sauce (almond-based) off the leftmost corner of his lip, as Maggie and Jordan murmured in agreement, munching on their own pita sandwiches—spinach, tomato, and tahini for Maggie’s, and a sampling flight of spreads for Jordan. Whether it was a function of his pre-cursed fate or what, the latter had always yearned to taste everything life had to offer, both literally and figuratively. _FOMO. Fear of Missing Out._

An hour later, once everyone had enjoyed their meal and whatever food coma that would have been, had passed, the three set to work once more, chanting as Maggie scrunched her eyes, emanating waves upon invisible soundwaves with her sinewy arms, her knotted hands melding amplifiers and glamours into the eerily steady space before her—a concoction— _floating mid-air—_

_“Two hearts, two souls,_

_Unite in wand’ring flight,_

_Restless ones, purpose made clear,_

_For evil they doth smite—"_

An invisible wind whirled around the trio, breaking oxygenated barriers, with vast vibratory migrations melting, solidifying, intertwining, separating, and sluicing—

Until there stood, before them, twin soul projections of Harry and Macy, wearing clothes identical to the first conjuring, down to twin soul Harry’s grey work-appropriate pants. Slowly exhaling, Maggie surveyed the couple, first appearing hazy and miasmic, then, with the amplifiers, solid and unnervingly so. She knew her rhyme was not the best-composed she could have done, but considering the urgency of the situation and the utter tension, she figured it would do. Somehow, her high school freshman English literature teacher came to mind, with his stolid emphasis on iambic pentameter and structured poetry. If she had submitted what she had just recited his way, he would have likely given her a C for lack of stimulating prose, in addition to what he would consider a quintessential millennial lack of imagination.

_It was best not to think about it._

Maggie approached both twin soul projections, whispering in Harry’s ear, then Macy’s, as they glanced at her with sympathetic eyes, before proceeding upstairs, leaving the remaining three to the underground confines of the Command Center.

“Where’d they go?” Harry asked, very much solid and corporeal.

“Upstairs,” Maggie answered simply. “Twin soul Macy’ll keep Julian distracted—” she exhaled sharply, a sudden vision of upstairs entering her mind’s eye—

_Dark flowing dress and mahogany hair set fashionably about her shoulders, the thirty-something glanced around the confines of the study space, finally settling upon a seat at the bar. Julian’s eyes wandered, mid-presentation, spotting the seated woman almost immediately._

_A deer in the crosshairs._

_Why, if it wasn’t Dr. Macy Vaughn, in the flesh—_

_“Our social capital is just as important as the bottom line…” He trailed off. “Um, I’m sorry—could you excuse me for one second?” He stepped out shortly thereafter to confront her, her seemingly demure nature belying her otherworldly origins._

_“Breaking up over voicemail.” A statement, not a question, to the woman, who was not nearly as startled as one likely would—or should—have been. “Not your finest hour—”_

_“Julian—” she rose, stepping closer until the pair were less than a foot apart. “Thank you for that—” she shifted her weight awkwardly, one foot to the other. “And I am sorry about the voicemail.”_

_“Vivienne—she put you up to it, right?” Realization dawned upon his visage, as his demeanor undertook a slight shift—from dismay to…something else entirely. “She’s meddled in my relationships before—”_

_“The last thing I want is to come between you and your family, so—"_

_“Well, the last thing I want is for my family to come between you and me—”_

_Twin soul Macy shrugged. “She doesn’t like me.” Dear old Aunt Viv. And she never will, she mused as Julian reached for her wrist._

_“I’ll make you a deal;_ you _let me handle my aunt, as long as you can handle_ me _.”_

_She paled as he kissed her cheek—a peck, really—her sensuous cheekbones showing none of the honeyed warmth, the rosy hue of ardor she reserved solely for a certain Whitelighter by the name of Harry Greenwood—_

Maggie’s eyes sprang open, as Jordan stood inches away in case she lost her balance. Though she did not, she was appreciative of his efforts, as she reached out to pat his arm, before glancing at Harry with a somewhat somber expression reserved for the likes of midterms and final exams.

“ _He’s kissing her, isn’t he_?” whispered Harry, as Jordan cringed ever-so-slightly on his behalf. “And I-and I can’t stop her—” Harry’s mind easily filled in the blanks—realizing Macy had, at one point, been driven from his arms into another’s, however impermanent, never ceased to cause him pain.

“Harry, I’m sorry—” Maggie began. “The empath projection infers behavior based on the person’s past interactions in the last month—it’s not personal—"

“Certainly _seems_ so. But,” he sighed deeply, massaging his temple, “ _do what you must_ ,” altogether understanding this was his penance. _Entirely unavoidable,_ given the current dimension _his_ true Macy was situated, as well as what he had done to deserve it. Harry turned to Jordan. “Are you ready?” The Whitelighter peered over at Maggie as well. _And you?_

They nodded. “Ready to go, sarge, just say the word—” Jordan gave the pronouncement, and soon after, he dashed several droplets of Escape essential oil before them, precisely where the twin souls had been successfully conjured, as current from a nearby socket generated enough electricity to widen the fast-unfolding chasm, soon large enough for Maggie and Harry to dive through—

_Laboratorio in serra, Palazzo, Siena, Italy, Simulation Crystal_

With a muffled _thump,_ they landed on a bare, though somewhat elegantly tiled floor _._ Brushing the dust off their clothes, they studied their surroundings, of what appeared to be an Italian winter garden mixed with chic touches of technological modernity—several pipettes here, a laptop _there_ —

His hand skated the thin plasticine wiring above their heads. _Were those stringed lights? Indeed they were,_ he discovered, wondering what it would be like to have such lights glowing in Vera Manor’s back garden, while he and Macy intertwined their fingers to the sultry tune of her choosing…

_CRASH!_

Harry gave a start as Maggie’s foot banged against a cacophonous tall, tin container of wide-leaved foliage. _“Heh…whoops,”_ she muttered apologetically, her eyes still fixed upon the expansive paned window-to-ceilinged glass skylight ahead. _If it were another day—any other day, in fact—she wouldn’t mind spending time here with Jordan, watching the rain fall in delightful pooled splatters, his head cradled within her lap as she read amusing tweets from her Smartphone, along with missmads’ vlog for ambient background sound. Maybe there could be a Tiffany bed—a half-couch-half-bed, with fuzzy marble grey and metallic silver pillows, and…_

 _“Ahem—”_ Harry cleared his throat indelicately, jolting Maggie’s brief reverie.

“ _Right,_ ummm…” she made her way to a uniform row of plant serum samples. “Macy’s been here,” she stated matter-of-factly.

“How do you know?”

She pointed at the vials. “They’re too uniform…and _perfect…_ to be done by anyone _other_ than Macy. She’s a stickler for details—” Harry half-chuckled. _Indeed, she was._ Rather than embark on a heady adventure through distant crumbling vineyard soil, or down the marbled walkway to the dormitories, each identical to the other on its surface, she sat upon one tall, sleek bamboo stool-stylized chair, motioning for Harry to sit on the other.

“Aren’t we going to look for Macy?” Harry could not help but inquire. _They had come so far, after all,_ as his youngest charge flipped through the nearby logbook, no doubt detailing the hypotheses, ingredients, and scientific theories being tested through the foliage-based experimentation.

She shook her head. “If Macy’s the scientist I know, she’ll come to us. She’s never left an experiment hanging, a project incomplete—I mean—you’ve _seen_ who she is—"

He smiled wistfully—or _sadly?_ It was hard to tell without stepping closer and invading his personal space just a bit, and she’d been doing so well, respecting peoples’ boundaries lately. She was determined to continue that winning streak of sorts. “Well, Margarita Vera, I certainly hope you’re right—”

“I _am_ —” she replied, more sure this time, as she shoved the notebook toward him. “See? One last entry dated to today, and she hasn’t filled it in yet. Only a matter of time—”

A door creaked, then widened, as two more entered the room. _Macy and the young gentleman,_ Harry surmised—

“ _Little Bug?”_ Antonio whispered, staring straight at Maggie. “ _Little Bug, is that you?”_

She regarded him in doe-eyed surprise, flipping through a mental rolodex of her past—people who called her by that long-ago moniker, until—she carefully studied his jet-black hair, his differential, graceful movement, his almost Whitelighter-like politesse—his distinct mannerisms _._ And suddenly, she remembered a boy from her youth, a charming child gracious then, and if time were any indication, the same as he ever was. _“Tony?”_

Harry gaped at the two. “You are both acquainted, I presume?”

“We’re cousins!” exclaimed Maggie, as Macy, just behind Antonio, walked past him and into the full glow of expansive greenhouse light, some feet away from Harry. _Close enough to see, but not touch,_ he thought to himself, wishing he could overcome his goodness, his _Whitelighter_ being, and just sweep the woman off her feet in a single grand gesture, delicious peals of laughter ringing out from within her very soul _, but alas, he was but half, severed in spirit—_

“ _C-cousins?”_ Macy stammered, as Antonio concurred. “So that means…since Maggie’s my sister…we share the same mom, Marisol—” she studied the young man with renewed interest, “you’re _my_ cousin too!”

“Oh—” Antonio’s mouth dropped slightly open. _Wow. This was a lot to process—or was it?_ He paused, bits of childhood memory flickering before him—his mother talking to Aunt Marisol, consoling the latter in hushed tones while Maggie toddled about and Mel tugged on his shirt sleeve, eager to display her Frieda Kahlo coloring book prowess. “ _Wow—"_

“Oh _my,”_ breathed Harry. _Your family’s one for the books_. “ _Ahem,”_ he coughed indelicately. “Much as we _all_ would love to continue this family, _er, reunion_ , we’ve a _very_ limited time to extract Macy from this locale before… _before…”_ he trailed off.

“Permanency?” Antonio offered, as Harry curtly bobbed his head in agreement. _Sharp fellow,_ mused Harry. _Clearly, the apple does_ not _fall far from the tree._

“So if you will excuse us,” Harry steered his eyes skyward. “ _JORDAN!”_

As if on cue, an uneven, crackling portal was created out of thin air, on the rightmost area of the greenhouse enclave, as he stepped through, followed by Maggie. “Macy, love, _please—”_ Harry pleaded. “ _Do_ come with us—we love you _so—” Not ‘we,’_ he remonstrated himself, though he found it difficult to make outward displays of affection in front of others, even if they were each other’s family. _I. I love you so…even now, his cowardice betrayed him…_

“What about him? What about Antonio?” Macy’s words interrupted Harry’s thoughts. Now that she understood Antonio to be kin, she couldn’t in good conscience leave him in this tumultuous environment. “Antonio’s coming with us,” she decided then and there.

“Are you sure?” Antonio searched her determined gaze. _Positive,_ she seemed to say. “Harry—if it’s ok with you—we barely know each other—” he spoke to the well-dressed, if not somewhat dusty, Brit—

Harry bore an enigmatic but nevertheless kind smile. “It’s _fine._ Any family member of the Charmed Ones— _well_ —suffice it to say— _we are all family_. Shall we?”

_Command Center, SafeSpace, Seattle, Washington_

Jordan continued keeping the portal open through maintaining an even electrical current, this time with a rogue defibrillator he’d managed to wrangle into his possession. Just before the stroke of midnight, all parties orbed back to the safety of the Command Center, much to his relief. “Jordan, meet Antonio, our cousin,” Maggie said, as the two guys shook hands.

“Nice to meet you!”

“Likewise—"

Harry made to reach for Macy’s smooth, silken hand, to clasp it to his lips and kiss her as he had always wanted—had _always,_ in the depths of his mind, _dreamed_ of—his fingers inched closer until they were mere millimeters away from hers, her visage bearing a hopeful expression of reconciliation and promise as their fingers tentatively brushed against the other’s—

“Gotta do a quick medical eval on y’all, make sure nobody’s sustained injury!” Jordan called out. Harry groaned, reluctantly pulling his hand away from Macy’s. _Another time,_ he mouthed, as her eyes sparkled just that much more. _Another chance—another opportunity—_

Once the relevant personages were in the clear, everyone’s attention turned to Antonio, who had gazed about the cavernous space, impressed by the real-time map and its glowing intricacies. “Do you have a place to stay?” Macy asked carefully, preparing herself for an answer either way.

“Yeah,” he spoke softly. “Can I?” Maggie nodded, allowing him control of the map function as he zeroed in on his family’s address. “I have some packing to do, then I’ll be back in Seattle again. Pretty soon.”

“Want to come over for dinner sometime?” Macy called out, before he went through the whirling circular portal. “Harry makes a mean Yorkshire pudding and roast beef—”

Antonio turned to her. “Sure, dinner would be great,” he replied, before resuming his path forward through the whirling entryway, after which his figure promptly vanished, no doubt cleaning and packing up his room to begin his adventures as a transfer student.

Maggie gasped, and Macy, Harry, and Jordan were instantly at her side as she uttered the words:

_“Two hearts, two souls,_

_Reunited fast, at long last,_

_Go home, there’s harmony,_

_Decades of bliss aplenty—"_

She felt a zephyr, an inexplicable breeze, shooting through the Command Center’s impenetrable burnished brick walls in the form of two fast-moving, glowing figures, transforming, melding, _morphing_ into two spherical orbs of light. _“Great job, you two,”_ she murmured, as their brightness flickered away with a _pop._

Macy tilted her head, puzzled. “What was _that_ about?” _Decades of bliss aplenty? Whose bliss?_

She was, Harry realized, finally near enough to _touch_ —to stroke a lovely cheek and inhale the positively _intoxicating_ cinnamon scent of a single mahogany curl. _A kiss,_ if they had been alone. Exercising great restraint, he instead wound his arm around her shoulder, drawing her all the more closer. _I ought to be grateful_ , he told himself. _I am indeed, quite lucky, all things considered, that Macy did not flinch._

 _‘Woo her,’_ Jordan mouthed to Harry, who understood, realizing his and Macy’s fate rested entirely in his hands, determining their future together, whatever that would, or could be—but— _alas—_

Harry’s form vanished. Not _orbed,_ with a _pop—_ but _vanished._

“W-Where’d Harry go?” Macy asked, turning to Maggie, who immediately paled. _Spontaneous disappearance was never a good thing, even in the magical realm._


	25. Gone Guy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abigael pays a visit to Vera Manor, S2E17-style.

25 Gone Guy

_“For time’s taken your troubles…” -E.H. Hanson_

_Day 4 to Day 5_

_Command Center, SafeSpace, Seattle, Washington_

_‘Woo her,’_ Jordan mouthed to Harry, who understood, realizing his and Macy’s fate rested entirely in his hands, determining their future together, whatever that would, or could be—but— _alas—_

Harry’s form vanished. Not _orbed,_ with a _pop—_ but _vanished._

“W-Where’d Harry go?” Macy asked, turning to Maggie, who immediately paled. _Spontaneous disappearance was never a good thing, even in the magical realm._

“Uhhhhhhhhh—” Just then, Maggie had a vision, a recollection of an earlier incident, further back in time, in which she had sought to wipe her ability to _feel—_ away. Building twin soul projections had been risky, utilizing an architecture of past moments in time, not to mention— _Harry. Harry, who already_ had _a twin. Jimmy. His sardonic Darklighter, Jimmy,_ as her mind raced of its own accord—

_A gala—an elevator—descending past floors of well-dressed donors—a basement—a metallic, nondescript door—a keypad—a long, elegant finger, somewhat aged but not unduly so, punched in the numbers with a seething air of utmost determination, as air hissed, revealing a frozen man encapsulated in a solid glass cylinder for the world to see—_

“ _We’ve got trouble,”_ the youngest Charmed One whispered in horror; opening her eyes, she found herself back in the Command Center. “The faction has Harry.” Pulling out her phone, she texted Mel; bartending would have to wait.

_Family emergency—Vera Manor ASAP!!!!!!!_

And— _sent._

Jordan looked on, unsure of what was transpiring, but nevertheless experiencing a deep sense of foreboding. “Vera, whatever it is, tell us what we need to do—” his eyes locked onto Maggie’s as she exhaled shakily, determined to maintain whatever sense of composure she had left. _Time was of the essence._

_Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington_

Between briefing Mel on the barebones details of Harry’s sudden disappearance _and_ hiding the fact Abigael was responsible for Macy’s abscondment leading to said Whitelighter’s vanishing, Maggie laid out various potion ingredients on the kitchen table. _Rosemary, thistle root, wall flower—_

“Thanks, sis!” Mel exclaimed moments later, entering the brightly-lit room.

“Just… _heh…_ doing my job!” Maggie awkwardly stood inches away as her middle sister began thinking of potions to best infiltrate the gala.

Mel raised an eyebrow. “ _What?”_ Maggie inquired.

“Why are you so… _helpful_ , all of a sudden?” asked Mel, out of the blue. “I mean, I like extra wall flower as much as the next witch, but what gives?”

“Um….my empath powers…expanded. Makes me know what stuff to get for people. Y’know. _Super-sensitive shopping power_?” the youngest Charmed One asked with a shoulder bob. “Plus,” her voice took on a more serious tone, “this is _Harry._ He’s _family—"_

_Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington_

Fifteen minutes passed as Mel hurriedly skimmed through her scrawled rolodex of past potions, selecting ones she thought would be most helpful for the gala infiltration. But—she frowned. She was missing a specific concoction. _And what were those ingredients again?_ She sighed headlong before pulling out her phone. _Thank Hera for technology. Not to mention Abigael on speed-dial—_

“You’re calling _her?_ ” Maggie’s voice rang out as Mel flinched ever-so-slightly. “We _really_ shouldn’t be relying on—”

“I _know_ —” interrupted Mel. “But I don’t think we have a choice. She’s the only one who has this written down. The only one we can trust—”

“ _You_ can trust—”

“ _Please,_ Maggie. We need to call her—”

“ _Fine.”_ Even though Maggie knew Mel and Abigael were destined for each other, she couldn’t stand the latter’s cold sneer and posh, upturned nose. _Ugh._ She shuddered, leaving the kitchen to check on Macy, who was taking a nap, exhausted from her earlier cross-dimensional journey.

_Front Stairwell, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington_

Jordan halted on the stairwell, fascinated—Mel, opening the door for a brunette and her countless pieces of hefty luggage, each larger than the next. _How had such a slender-boned woman moved all this…stuff?_

Mel stared. “Abigael, _what’s all this?” Are you out of your mind?_

“Thanks to you and your sisters,” she began in a creamy accented lilt, “I had to flee my abode. How about… _I_ give you access to my ‘cookbook,’ let’s just say, _and_ move my baggage in. Consider this a _quid pro quo?”_ Her voice drawled, almost derisive, as Maggie and Macy raced to the front entryway. Jordan remained where he stood, cautiously observing how would play out. He had already heard enough of Abigael to be wary, and he didn’t want to risk an unprovoked clock to the shoulder from Macy. _Here is good—I’ll just stay still, and—_

“Uh, quid pro _NO!”_ exclaimed Maggie. Macy simply glared daggers at the Sussex-bred woman, hoping the latter would disintegrate on the spot. _Would a voluntary manslaughter ‘heat of passion’ defense suffice?_ But then she remembered surrendering her fire power earlier. _Abigael, for better or worse, would live to see another day._

“Like it or not, you three _need_ me. And _I_ need a place to stay. _Besides,_ ” the woman remarked coolly, “I can’t imagine you’d sneak _oodles_ of potions in hefty duffels past the likes of Shea’s high-tech security—”

“How would you know _anything_ about that?” Macy found her voice again, replete with bitterness for her hybrid foe. Rather than deign a response to such skepticism, Abigael handed Mel a silver clutch—a hand-held fabric rectangle, shiny and glittering, an object commonly known to hold lipstick and the like—“Mel, _don’t touch it!”_ Macy yelped, but Mel clasped onto the item, tenuously at first, her fingers brushing ever-so-slightly with Abigael’s own. _Was that on purpose, or intentional?_ the middle Charmed One wondered. _What were this brunette’s motives, anyhow?_

 _At the same time…_ Mel reflected, given the situation they were in, with Harry… _even though this porcelain-visaged woman had an arrogant outward veneer, somehow, she herself sensed Abigael would save them all in the end. She always had, so far. She just had a feeling—_

“Because of _this—_ ” Abigael thrust a bottle of unknown substance into the wide-open mouth of her own compact purse, its contents diving, awash in an unearthly orange glow, swiftly resurfacing in Mel’s own handbag with an rising, outward bounce, as all three women plus Jordan watched, dumbfounded.

“That—” he exclaimed mere moments later, breaking the tension, “was _cool!”_

The brunette grinned, Cheshire-style, surveying her smooth French manicured nails, pearly tips and all, before meeting his astounded expression. “Why, _thank_ you Jordan, I’m glad _someone_ here appreciates my alimentary prowess.” She turned to the Charmed Ones.

“So what’s the plan _…girlfriends?”_


	26. The Nefarious Nadia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry laments having never said a proper goodbye, as Nadia prepares to freeze him.

26 The Nefarious Nadia

_“…And it’s left them smooth and calm…” -E.H. Hanson_

_Day 4 to Day 5_

_Front Stairwell, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington_

“Because of _this—_ ” Abigael thrust a bottle of unknown substance into the wide-open mouth of her own compact purse, its contents diving, awash in an unearthly orange glow, swiftly resurfacing in Mel’s own handbag with an upward, outward bounce, as all three women plus Jordan watched, dumbfounded.

“That—” he exclaimed mere moments later, breaking the tension, “was _cool!”_

The brunette grinned, Cheshire-style, surveying her smooth, manicured nails before meeting everyone’s gaze. “So what’s the plan _…girlfriends?”_

_Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington_

Several dresses lay scattered about the bed, each more ostentatious than the next. _None of them seemed ‘right,’_ thought Macy, as she hurriedly rifled through each one. _Not for such a serious situation as this. Pink, blue, and red seemed somehow inappropriate. What if something happened to Harry? What if—_

She covered her mouth to stifle a sob.

“ _Hey,”_ Maggie touched her arm. “You ok?” Macy shook her head, blinking away tears.

“No. No, I’m not ok. This is _not_ ok. What if—what if Harry—” she shook her head, unable to speak, as Maggie rubbed her back sympathetically.

“He _won’t_. He’s got _us_ —”

“But what if—” her eyes belied the fear within.

“Mace, you’re my sister and I love you, but don’t go there.”

“Ok,” Macy drew a slow inhale, followed by a deep exhale. “It’s also that—none of these dresses do it for me…” she trailed off, her hand stroking the swath of multicolored silken fabric, each sultrier than the next. “I need something more…” she searched for the word— _alluring? Dangerous? Death-defying?_

“Bond girl?” offered Maggie, as her older sister’s lips turned upward, ever-so-slightly.

“ _Exactly.”_

Several more minutes passed, in which more dresses joined the near-toppling pile. “How about this?” Maggie reached beneath, displaying an ebony-hued sleeveless fitted ballgown, its inch-width straps studded with metal— _sheer badassery._

“Perfect,” breathed Macy, as she walked toward the mirror, angling her profile, the dress draped across her front, still on its hanger. Spotting the excess fabric sweeping across the floor, the gown’s stylish train, her face fell. “It’s too long—”

“Not if you do this—” Maggie reached for the tiniest pinch of glamour powder, dabbing the sloping fabric, causing a tiny burst of glittering smoke. As the air cleared the next instant, Macy realized the material was neatly pinned, or somehow, _attached—_ in an elegant dark cinched ruffle from behind.

“ _Wow, Mags,”_ breathed Macy, turning this way and that, moving carefully as to not trip. “How did you—”

“French bustle, aka wedding fashion 101,” she answered. “Even though Parker didn’t pan out, I picked up some fashion tricks along the way. For when the couple dances, so the bride doesn’t trip—”

Macy nodded. _Makes sense._ “Seems practical…” she paused, surveying her neckline, glancing at another one of Maggie’s glamour vials, labeled “ _Goth Chic_.” “Uh, can I borrow that?” She envisioned cubic jewelry made of grey polished hematite, a stone known for healing properties. _They needed all the help they could get, after all—_

“Of course!” She tossed her older sister the vial and set to work on her own outfit. _Perhaps a slinky gown, inch straps, with a mermaid A-line setting in the front—_ as she found exactly the thing moments later. _Bingo._ Reaching for a separate vial, she imagined long Audrey-Hepburn-style gloves, fancy and sleek, along with a somewhat ostentatious (but not _overly_ so) Swarovski crystal choker necklace to complete the ensemble. _Jordan Chase, eat your heart out!_

Though their situation was less than ideal, Maggie couldn’t help but squeal with excitement, for they were finally, at long last, going to a party _._ And not just _any_ party. _The_ party, of all parties. A billionaire’s _gala._

_Subterranean Level, Shea Group, Seattle, Washington_

_Ice._

_Ice and a barricade._

_Determined to maintain his cover, despite whatever Nadia had in store, he wondered, not for the first time, what the Elders had been thinking, to have the bare audacity to sever his intact human whole, creating an utterly subservient being in the process. As a Whitelighter, he felt no fear, no ambivalence, no hesitation for himself, as he had been designed for a greater, higher cause. This much, he was certain. As for the Charmed Ones—Macy, in particular—that was a different matter entirely._

_He gasped, realizing with a start that he had been placed in some cylindrical metallic chamber of indeterminate origin. Banging on its sides, wide-eyed with horror, he began yelling. Screaming. “LET ME OUT! PLEASE!” but his efforts were in vain—or were they?_

_A wave of crimson tresses flashed before the narrow window. Nadia. He pummeled the airtight vehicle—whatever this was, he did not fancy it one bit—seeking to attract assistance, no matter how nefarious. “NADIA, RELEASE ME AT ONCE!” but his voice came out a mere whisper, for his body was encapsulated in the most mighty of metal strongholds._

_“No, I don’t think I will,” Nadia’s voice rang out, echoing about him. How had she done that, exactly? Then it occurred to him. A speaker of some sort, no doubt. Technocrats and their playthings. What would they come up with next? Quite impressive, really, were it not for the fact he would soon become a literal popsicle—_

_“WHY?” he attempted to wrestle his way out, orb even—to no avail. “WHY DO YOU DO THIS?”_

_A tsk-tsk-tsk was audible. “Oh Jimmy,” Nadia’s blood-red lips mouthed at the glass directly in front of him, her slender frame but a farce, for she packed enough muscle to disengage an entire army. “You’ve been a naughty boy—" as an odd whirr of machinery buzzed directly behind his ear, a futuristic gnat, the true stuff of nightmares as he dove and planted himself at the container’s edge, a memory resurfacing of an unpleasant encounter with mystical bees—or were they hornets? The distinction hardly mattered then and was of superfluous nature at present._

_He needed to avoid that needle—but how? How, when he was trapped, tomb-like, a consummate claustrophobe with no semblance of a ready escape? Frantically clawing about, he ducked toward the tinned floor the next instant—or attempted to, at least. Bare and shivering now, realizing he was bereft of his clothes, as his knees painfully collided with the titanium-like surface before him. The indignity!_

_And indeed it was, he thought to himself, wishing in that moment he had his second-favorite starched silk shirt, his impeccably ironed navy slacks, and crisp matching blazer, so that he could be issued forth from this universe into the next, with the utmost of propriety._

_If only he were so fortunate._

_There were so many unsaid words—to Mel, a message for her to confidently ascend into a position of leadership. To Maggie, he imagined instructing her in a brotherly way, to trust her well-honed empath instincts. And Macy, oh sweet, sweet Macy—_

_“Macy, my dear—"_

_He finally acknowledged aloud, in the briefest of whispers, that his heart had long been captured by her beauteous spirit—_

_“Oh Macy—I love you.”_

_One simple phrase was all it took, all-encompassing and yet not enough, to describe his feelings toward a certain curly-haired melanin-hued woman whose skin glowed with the energy of a thousand suns. Lost in thought, he barely registered the swift pierce of his skin, and the subsequent insertion of a tiny chip no larger than a grain of rice. Small, yes, but strong enough to erase every memory of the recent past, as the auburn-haired woman held a recording of the peculiar utterance, “Forty Stone Parasite,” to the interconnected speaker. “Forty Stone Parasite. Forty Stone Parasite. Forty Stone…”_

_He blinked amid the fast-fogging interior, no longer sensing the encroaching icicles inveigling his extremities. A sense of eerie calm came upon him as his hand halted mid-air, stroking the smooth, polished metal that curved about him._

_Who were the Charmed Ones, again?_

_And who on earth was—_

_Macy?_

_So much ice—then—_

_Darkness._


	27. A Cosmopolitan Confessional

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macy finally apologizes to Jordan for their (one-time, short-lived, ill-fated) sparring session. Abigael and Mel spend time together, and talk.

27 A Cosmopolitan Confessional

_“…Like rocks the water shaped/’Til they fit snug inside your palm…” -E.H. Hanson_

_Day 4 to Day 5_

_Front Stairwell, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington_

The brunette grinned, Cheshire-style, surveying her smooth, manicured nails before meeting everyone’s gaze. “So what’s the plan _…girlfriends?”_

_Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington_

“Fancy mixing potions with you on a Saturday night,” Mel heard a familiar drawl, as they frantically crushed, diced, pulverized, mixed, and concocted the voice-mimicking potion, miniature smoke clouds billowing forth, glass test tubes of colored liquid vibrating with each mortar-to-pestle grind. If she were truly honest with herself, she almost… _enjoyed it._

 _Really?_ Her thoughts turned inward. _She’s wicked through-and-through. Irredeemable. Tried to, y’know, kill your oldest sister. Turned you into a ravaging, raving lunatic of a kyon. And still—_

_Even now?_

Her fingers brushed Abigael’s lithe own as she reached for essence of myrtle, its peppery, bay leaf-like chartreuse glowing forth in ethereal yellow-green. Suppressing the barest of gasps, Mel tried her hardest not to let her eyes stray to the Sussex woman’s _extremely_ low-cut black-sparkling halter top, topped off with a hardened gold choker worth more than the entirety of Mel’s own wardrobe—

Just as the Brit swallowed hard, realizing she was inches—mere _inches—_ to the right of a certain raven-haired lady with a surprising knack for potions mixing, and chemical interlacing besides. _Intertwine your arms along me all night long, my sweet_ , she mused to herself with a somewhat naughty twist of her lip. _I wouldn’t mind in the slightest—_ as she did a once-over of the melanin-hued woman, enjoying the rather sumptuous view of burnished damask fabric, saucily printed in a rather intriguing zebra pattern.

_On to me, on to me, on to me…and I’m on to you, on to you, on to you…_

Sultry song lyrics permeated Abigael’s brain as she swept a brown lock of hair behind an ear; she continued her demonstrations, after which swiftly Mel followed suit. _Were they on to me?_ the Brit couldn’t help but wonder, knowing she had caught everyone unawares with her piles upon piles of luggage. _Even if it_ was _their fault she was a fugitive on the lam. Even if—_

Her eyes made contact with a rounded glass container of bright apple-green powder. _She had wanted to grow closer to Mel, a spitfire of a woman who had been the first to reject her admittedly over-the-top advances once upon a very long time ago, even if she hadn’t done so aloud. Her visage indicated as much._ But that was _then_ —and the woman standing _here_ , directly next to her, seemed to be reconsidering…

Their hands suddenly met atop one of the six delicate test tubes before them—the burgundy liquid-filled one, at the furthest left. “Oh—” Abigael began, as her cheeks began to turn a faint pink—

“Um—" Mel hurriedly removed her hand from the object. “After _you—"_ averting her eyes as Abigael laughed, a delicious peal emanating from her angular, lustrous lips. _What if? What if Abigael could be more? What if she were…mine? What if I became…hers?_ But she banished the notion mere moments later. _Harry._ She shook her head, attempting to clear her mind of any and all distraction. _Focus, Mel! Harry needs you!_

As Mel continued to add concoctions to the remaining test tubes—a syrupy crimson followed by a smoky quartz-colored substance vaguely smelling of Azorian coconut—she realized her motives, outwardly noble, were _not_ entirely altruistic. Sure, Harry needed saving. But did she _really_ need to call Abigael? Maggie had, after all, attempted to dissuade her from doing so, understanding through her empath abilities ( _and common sense, besides_ ), that relying on a half-monster of a woman was not necessarily the wisest idea.

She was inclined to agree, but—besides a certain underlying admiration for such a powerful woman, her mind—and her _heart_ —well, the heart wanted what the heart wanted—that much she gathered. And though she pretended disappointment at being left behind, Mel couldn’t help but feel secretly enthralled at the chance to learn from Abigael’s potion mastery genius, encapsulated in a vaguely vintage notebook. _Even if her sisters detested the woman, she, Mel Vera, did not._ Glancing at the introduction— _or was it the epitaph?—_ of the well-worn tome, she observed the following, in elegant calligraphy:

_Never forget, love is the real magic. Kisses, Francesca._

“My sainted mother,” Abigael remarked with a hint of sarcasm, as Mel gave a start.

“ _Your_ mother?” Mel raised an eyebrow. _Kisses. How…affectionate. Somehow, Abigael didn’t seem like the gushy lovey-dovey type—_

The cauldron sputtered, droplets of its amber gelatin landing on Abigael’s wrist. _“Bollocks—”_ she muttered as Mel crossed the kitchen to grab a few paper towels.

“Here—”

“Appreciated.”

“Abigael,” Mel began, unsure of how to phrase things exactly. “You’re part witch—you don’t have to give into your… _other_ side—”

“My _demon_ side, you mean?”

“Your father tried to kill you—sent his minions—I don’t know why you still—”

“I don’t suppose you would—”

“ _Abigael,”_ she continued, almost pleadingly so. “ _Help me understand.”_ She stepped closer, dabbing at what remained of the goo, peering at the woman with a sympathetic expression. “Being a witch is great too. You can make the world a—”

“ _Happier, healthier place?”_ the woman mimicked in falsetto, before adopting a caustic tone, positively dripping with contempt. _“_ Spare me the pity—the _mumbo-jumbo—”_

“Saving the world—” Mel resumed, but was cut off yet again.

“And being _good,_ and sunshine, sweets, and _fairy dust?_ I’d sooner have a stiletto in my eye.”

Mel sighed. _Maybe her sisters were right._

_Or…maybe she simply had her work cut out for her…_

_I’ll win you over to the bright side one day._

_Mark my words, Abigael._

_Outside Gala, Main Floor, Shea Group, Seattle, Washington_

“I dunno if I mentioned this before, but you ladies look _fantastic,”_ Jordan remarked, after the three covertly marbled into a discreet coat closet off the main lobby. _Those blueprints were a lifesaver in more ways than one._

“Awww…same for you, J,” Maggie grinned, patting his arm as she made to approach the gala entryway, where people were giving out fliers depicting the night’s events.

“Jordan, a word?” Macy called out. Intrigued (and somewhat worried), Jordan broke away from Maggie’s hold and followed the oldest Charmed One to an adjoining room, which she unlocked with a flick of her wrist, before motioning him inside.

_Adjoining Room, Main Floor, Shea Group, Seattle, Washington_

“Uh, Mace?” he asked. “What’s up?” _Not the face—please, not the face—_ he silently begged, while managing to project a cool, confident exterior. “Something wrong?” He noticed Macy twisting her gala gloves, first one index fingered sleeve, then another, as she began pacing— _a couple steps here, a couple steps there—_

Before sighing, halting in place, glancing back up at him. Jordan knew he was pretty tall, but there was something about these three sisters—something _formidable._ He often forgot Maggie was a petite five-foot three (or two), and Mel, likewise. _As for Macy…_

She began to speak. “Listen, Jordan…remember the first time we met?”

He nodded, unsure exactly as to where this conversation was headed. “Yeah, how could I forget?”

Macy bit back a smile before replying. “Right…um… _about that—_ I was trying—well—I was kind of on a mission, and our magic went kaput, and Harry—actually _Maggie—_ but _also_ Harry—needed to investigate your ring—” she was starting to ramble and knew it.

“The Chase family heirloom.” _And?_ His eyes traveled from the statuesque figure before him to the door which separated themselves from the rescue mission that would soon be underway.

“About that—" she paused briefly to stare at a portion of the elevated ceiling before meeting his eyes. “ _Oh God I’m really terrible at this—”_

He tilted his head, puzzled and now somewhat concerned. “Terrible? At _what?_ ”

She exhaled. “ _Apologizing.”_ Stepping closer (but still maintaining a certain modicum of social distancing), she resumed her semi-rehearsed script. “ _Look_ , Jordan, what I mean to say is—that day—basically— _I’m sorry_. I’m sorry for punching you. It was a low blow. You got caught in the crosshairs. Long story short, you didn’t deserve that.”

Feeling slightly braver now that that was spoken aloud, she continued. “You’re an asset to Maggie and Harry, and I really appreciate that. You’re part of our team. You’re one of us. Friends?” She offered an outstretched hand, hoping beyond hope they could finally let bygones be bygones, which he accepted without hesitation, much to her astonishment.

Jordan grinned. “Friends.” And they shook on it.

“Y’know,” Macy remarked softly mere seconds later, “you and Maggie would make a great power couple—”

He blushed ever-so-slightly. “Uh, see, here’s the thing—”

Macy held up a hand. “Lemme finish.” He fell silent. “You and Maggie work well together, you’re good to her, and I’ve seen the way she looks at you. How you looked at _her_ , back in Vera Manor Garden.” _Snug beneath blankets, under the myriad twinkling tea lights, a veritable constellation, even in the burgeoning glimmer of early morning post-poltergeist haze._ “If you ever wanted…”

“It’s not like that—”

“But if it ever is,” Macy went on, “you have my unwavering support.”

 _Oh. Wow. Huh. How ‘bout that…_ “Thanks, Macy.” _Two simple words, but with enough weight to convey its full meaning. Perhaps someday…he and Maggie…they could be an item._ But now, they had bigger fish to fry. They made their way to the door as it swept open, the corridor now bustling with well-heeled socialites in gowns, each more dazzling than the next. “Shall we?”

Macy nodded, as they approached an energetically-waving Maggie up ahead, feeling lighter than she had in ages.


	28. Of Tall Technocrats and Glamorous Galas

28 Of Tall Technocrats and Glamorous Galas

_“…Race to where you left yourself…” -E.H. Hanson_

_Day 4 to Day 5, continued_

_Adjoining Room, Main Floor, Shea Group, Seattle, Washington_

“Shall we?”

Macy nodded, as they approached an energetically-waving Maggie up ahead, feeling lighter than she had in ages.

_Gala, Main Floor, Shea Group, Seattle, Washington_

Jordan angled both of his arms _just_ so _._ “Ladies?” as Maggie and Macy linked themselves with him on either side.

“ _Let’s do this—”_ the oldest Charmed One murmured with an air of fierce determination, as they proceeded forth through the heavy double doors, to the darkened within. For a lone second, she fretted about possibly tripping over her sumptuous sultry ballgown, but her shoulders immediately relaxed as she met Maggie’s eyes, knowing she could put full faith and confidence in her youngest sister’s glamours.

Unused to such splendor, Macy wanted to gaze about at everyone—mostly young, sylph-like, slender, and porcelain-pale, but resisted the urge to do so. _They were on a mission, after all—_ and Maggie was right— _to maintain their façade with Vivienne, they needed to act as though they belonged—as if they owned the place—as if—_

Without meaning to, her eyes traveled the length of the perimeter, noticing hordes of tall women posed in front of pearly silk backdrops, facing LED ring lights for achieving the perfect photographic lighting. Pursed lips, glowers, smizes, thin-lipped smiles— _if those were even smiles—_ everyone appeared bedazzled in sheer splendor, with _utterly_ constipated expressions. She laugh-snorted as Jordan gave her a quizzical expression. “Vaughn?”

“Sorry…heh.” Whenever she became nervous or otherwise flustered, she would come down with a fit of giggles. _More like snorts, but who kept track? Certainly not Harry, who had observed them firsthand with a certain mischievous twinkle in his eye. Oh, Harry…_ She smoothed the folds of her gown with the one hand not linked with Jordan’s elbow, breathing in and out. _Deep soothing breaths. Breathe in—breathe out—breathe in—breathe out—_

Iridescent electric-blue laser-cut lighting shone overhead, while tan rectangular cubic canvas-like lanterns were displayed upon the main aisle’s footpath. _Elegant, but sinister almost,_ Macy sensed, half-expecting such tall sconces to have intricate inlaid work—but each met her with an unlined, blank, dour countenance.

At second glance, the glowing elongated bulbs appeared as though they were chopped spaghetti pieces. Thinking back to an earlier college elective course, she recalled her professor mentioning that in certain cultures, long noodles were consumed beneath the New Year’s moon to symbolize longevity—a long, healthy life and all the joy associated with it. To sever such items meant exactly the opposite. She shivered.

A projection at the stage, a giant “S” in circular, almost _cyclical_ design hinted at the monstrosity of the company’s subterranean secret mission—stealing magic for mortal means, to prolong each season of human life in an unearthly, unnatural way. _Julian,_ she imagined herself saying—not here, certainly not _now—_ as the tuxedoed man waved and made his way toward them— _how_ could _you?_

_Be strong._

_You were born for this mission._

_This is your moment to shine, Bond-girl._

_But most importantly—do this for Harry._

A bright orange glow emanated from her silver sequined purse a second later. _Mel and Abigael’s voice mimicking potion. Whew._ Passing a slow-melting ice sculpture, Julian’s company logo prominently carved upon it, Maggie, Jordan, and Macy each plucked a delicate glass flute of champagne from their countless pre-prepared rows.

_Table, Gala, Main Floor, Shea Group, Seattle, Washington_

Having traveled the length of the room, the trio found an empty miniature cocktail table, where they examined the proffered concoction.

“ _Do it—do it now!”_ Maggie hissed, as Macy opened the container, tilting her head back to gulp the mixture. Feeling the liquid trickle down her throat, she closed her eyes, willing herself in that moment to plaster onto her visage a smile that would fool Mr. Shea himself _._

“Macy—” _Speak of the devil._ Julian approached the oldest Charmed One from behind as she attempted a smile, “you look spectacular—"

 _Effervescence and light. Light and happiness._ She feigned such an attempt, if not for herself, for Harry, currently kept hostage down below.

“And you must be the mysterious Maggie,” Julian turned his attention to the youngest Charmed One.

“Hi,” uttered Maggie, sans enthusiasm, though Julian failed to notice.

“I was starting to think you didn’t exist—” he extended a hand toward Maggie’s gloved own.

“And here I am, just like magic— _poof!_ ” she attempted lightheartedness, if only to throw the tall, wealthy gentleman off the scent.

“And star law student!” Julian beamed at Jordan.

“A pleasure,” Jordan responded quietly, as the two men briefly exchanged a handshake.

“Oh, uh, this is Julian’s aunt—Vivienne,” Macy spoke up, noticing a familiar auburn-haired woman sidle up to Jordan’s left. Glittering in a sparkling v-line gown, the older woman wore a thin rhinestone necklace with a dangling center chain—a four-leafed clover put to intricate design, with a single matching center stone.

“Oh, no introduction needed, I’m a huge, _huge_ fan—” Jordan began, upon spotting the woman. Determined to play his part well, he’d fully rehearsed his lines— _and then some. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, or so the saying went._

“ _Oh,_ is _that_ right?” Suddenly, Vivienne seemed more intrigued, possibly in an odd Mrs. Robinson-like manner, her cat-like eyes leaning upward, examining his fresh-faced visage, as Maggie inwardly cringed. _Woman, don’t you_ dare _mess with—_

“—Um, would you excuse me? Just—” Glancing at Julian, Macy motioned toward a side door, “—gonna run to the ladies’ room—" before kissing him squarely on the lips. _Just the briefest of pecks. Anything to rescue Harry,_ she assured herself as she turned and nodded with a certain semblance of confidence.

“ _Hey—”_ came the whisper, as Macy swiveled. “ _You alright?”_ Julian looked askance at Macy’s visage as her lips remained sealed, her eyebrows elevated as she nodded wordlessly, before making a hasty exit. _More than you know._

“Julian!” Maggie jostled for his attention as he turned back toward the occupied miniature cocktail table. She realized he was sharper than she’d given him credit for, and likely required a closer leash if any of their rescue mission was to go even _remotely_ as planned.

_Elevator, Main Floor, Shea Group, Seattle, Washington_

Throwing sidelong glances, she punched the elevator’s smoke-glass keypad until a _ring_ emanated. Gold-plated doors slid open moments later as she stepped in, the voice activation mechanism awaiting its prompt. “Julian Shea, S3” she announced in a vaguely familiar but nonetheless unsettling masculine voice, as the doors shut before her.

_This better work. A race against time—_

_A race toward her one and only—Harry._

_It_ had _to work._

_Right?_

_Table, Gala, Main Floor, Shea Group, Seattle, Washington_

Twenty minutes had come and gone. _Where was Macy?_ She turned her attention back to Vivienne.

“So let me get this straight—you’re a veteran, an EMT, an entrepreneur, _and_ a law student?” The older woman turned to her. “I must say, Maggie, you’ve got _quite_ the catch—”

“Oh, um, we’re—uh—”

“ _Colleagues—”_ interjected Jordan, much to Maggie’s relief. _Thanks for not blowing our cover._

A strange look passed over Vivienne’s visage. “ _Right,”_ she said slowly, somehow sensing things didn’t quite add up. _Why the secrecy, one had to wonder? What was Maggie hiding? What was their family hiding? And speaking of family, where on_ earth _was—_

“Macy!” Maggie gestured over, as her sister approached. Vivienne chose this moment to leave, taking her nephew’s shoulder as the pair strode over to a group of chic socialites sipping from identical flutes of sparkling cider. “ _Did you—?”_ she whispered, as Macy shook her head. “Why not?”

“ _Too many hallways_ ,” muttered Macy, checking they were out of Julian and Vivienne’s earshot. “We need another plan—” as her eyes traveled to Jordan, and by extension, Julian’s aunt. She pointedly glanced at her youngest sister. _Are you thinking what I’m thinking?_ as Maggie nodded resolutely.

_Table, Gala, Main Floor, Shea Group, Seattle, Washington_

“Wait— _hold up—_ you’re saying I gotta kiss Julian’s _aunt?_ Oh no—walk up to a total stranger and kiss them? Even white dudes can’t do that anymore!”

The women exchanged glances. _Jordan was right. Especially in this day and age._

 _Lips, lips, lips…_ Macy shifted her weight, one foot to the other, her scientific prowess at work. _What was the equivalent positioning that could act as a ready substitute? Was it a matter of salivary glands? The epidermal structure?_ as her eyes suddenly lit up. “That’s it!” Jordan and Maggie stared at her, perplexed, as she eagerly demonstrated her hypothesis. “See, what matters is an imprint of _lips_ —stratified squamous epithelium—and extracellular fluid— _saliva—”_

“Point being?” Maggie inquired. _Time was fast slipping away—they needed a solution ASAP._

“Point _being—”_ the oldest Charmed One held up a champagne flute, its liquid contents gleaming beneath the iridescent lighting. “All you need, Jordan, is—”

“A sip _—”_ his face brightened immediately, as he didn’t much like the thought of smooching a billionaire’s socialite aunt without her stated permission. _Plus, he’d much rather be kissing Maggie, if he were truly honest—her doe-like eyes and fierce demeanor practically brought him to his knees, and ever since she had saved his life (and done a kick-ass duet!), he had admired her all the more._

Macy grinned. _“Exactly.”_


	29. Fantastic Force and Fury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macy imagines what could have been. Abigael and Mel have a sweet moment.

29 Fantastic Force and Fury

_“…Alone among the banks…” -E.H. Hanson_

_Day 4 to Day 5, continued_

_Table, Gala, Main Floor, Shea Group, Seattle, Washington_

“Point _being—”_ the oldest Charmed One held up a champagne flute, its liquid contents gleaming beneath the iridescent lighting. “All you need, Jordan, is—”

“A sip _—”_ his face brightened immediately, as he didn’t much like the thought of smooching a billionaire’s socialite aunt without her stated permission. _Plus, he’d much rather be kissing Maggie, if he were truly honest—her doe-like eyes and fierce demeanor practically brought him to his knees, and ever since she had saved his life (and done a kick-ass duet!), he had admired her all the more._

Macy grinned. _“Exactly.”_

_Subterranean Level, Shea Group, Seattle, Washington_

Ten minutes later, the trio found themselves within the belly of the beast. A series of computers whirred and beeped, much like hospital intensive care intravenous monitoring units. _What is this place?_ Macy wondered, her skirts traveling past each laid-out blockade of machinery. She glanced down below, cylinder upon crated cylinder and gasped. Each was foggier than the next— _oh no—_ her heart sank. _Nononono…not Harry—_

“Everyone split up!” she screamed, tears falling of their own accord as they broke rank, clenched fist to each separate polished surface, frantically mopping up condensation to reveal the frozen being within. _No Harry here,_ as she finished the container to the furthest-most left of the cavernous room. Jordan and Maggie continued their examinations likewise to her right—

“ _Macy!”_ The oldest Charmed One dropped her fist, hurrying to Maggie’s side. “ _Look—”_ the empath pointed, as Jordan and Macy crowded around, gasping in horror. “It’s _Harry—”_

 _Her second-worst nightmare._ Behind _the_ worst—which was, and still remained, that unpleasant vignette of Abigael having wormed her way into Harry’s arms, creating a brood of two pale Victorian Era-esque, unsmiling children. But it didn’t make the current situation any less urgent. _Harry, it’s me! Harry…oh, Harry…_

A flurry of beeps a hundred meters away roused their attention, as Macy grew increasingly panic-stricken. _Vivienne._ But—how could she have known we were here? Or maybe, _maybe,_ in the most unfortunate of worst-case scenarios, she decided to have a pleasure stroll with a heavy-handed donor of hers at this precise moment. Her jaw clenched as she ran through a flurry of possible actions, scenarios, and alternatives.

 _The metal cylinder was connected to the computers._ She sped upstairs and pressed several buttons to log on and create something— _anything_ —to liberate the immobilized man—her Whitelighter—her _Harry—_ but it was no use, her hands shaking so badly she found herself unable to type, let alone _see_ straight. “There’s not enough time!” she moaned aloud, her finger making contact with one particularly prominent button. _‘Press here to initiate,’_ it read. _How bad could that possibly be?_ And— _click._

 _In an ideal world,_ Macy imagined, Harry would walk out of that cryo-chamber, and they would share a sensual hug—he would, quite possibly, swing her low akin to that iconic post-war photo, and plant a kiss upon her lips as she tugged his collar closer, wanting to drink every bit of him until the evening blurred into twilight, and the stars faded to a new dawn.

_If only she were so fortunate._

The routers whistled with increased fervor as a laser-cut beam of light emanated from the top of a futuristic, oddly-shaped _tardis_ of sorts _—_ Jordan and Maggie surveyed the scene with horror as the first solid statue of a creature had its life force drained until it was nothing but cold, dark ash.

“Houston, we have a problem!” Maggie screeched. Macy glanced up past the row of monitors, her own latter’s face drained of color as she stared at the horror before her very eyes, the equipment now moving to the next being—and the one after that, soon after— _Harry_.

_This was really, really, really bad._

_Subterranean Level, Shea Group, Seattle, Washington_

_Opening his eyes, he found himself ensconced in a blanket of the deepest plum-ebony twilight, a silvery constellation of stars draped overhead. Hesitating, he took one step, then another as he approached a fanciful tree far into the distance—whether it was maple or oak or a myriad of timbers, it mattered not to him. Its branches were laden in tiny twinkling gold-hued tealights, a hundred strands per sturdy bough, each chandeliered, dangling strand twenty lights long._

_His feet moved of their own accord—one in front of the other, drawing just that much closer as he observed, on one of the right-most branches, a carved swing, held on each side by a sturdy piece of woven rope. Why a swing? Why here?_

_He knew he ought to bear a semblance of fear—of innermost conflict—but all he felt was peace, or what seemed as close as he could get to such a serene state of being. ‘Besides,’ he reasoned to himself, ‘why would someone—or something—lure him to such a lovely, whimsical location, only to do away with him?’ Somehow in the recesses of his mind, he understood that even whimsy had its preternatural, all-too-precarious pitfalls. The lyrics of “London Bridge is Falling Down” floated within his mind, as if sung by—a child? A fairy? A…pixie?—for the briefest of seconds as he shivered, though the unseasonal chill disappeared nearly as fast as it had appeared._

_‘Jimmy. My name is Jimmy. And I’m standing in front of a sparkling tree. There’s no such thing as fairies, no such thing as pixies, and I certainly haven’t fathered any foundlings—to my recent recollection at least,’ he told himself, his pace increasing ever-so slightly—_

_Pausing in his footsteps, he realized the chasm of dirt—of lawn—seemed to increase ever the more with each footstep. Odd. He made to rush headlong, hurtling much in the form of those cinema stills of American football he’d seen that one time he skived off work. Jimmy the American footballer—how ludicrous! How daft! And yet—he couldn’t help but wonder what life would be, if he hadn’t been born, practically predestined, to be nothing but a cad._

_Subterranean Level, Shea Group, Seattle, Washington_

“Do _something! NOW!”_ screamed the youngest Charmed One, as Macy wrung her hands, now standing feet away from her petrified paramour.

“Ok…ok…I’m thinking…” her breath emanated in clouded tendrils, realizing the overhead machine’s needle was fast approaching her love. _Oh God. What—what do I—_

Out of the blue, Marisol’s voice echoed within her, a soothing tone of maternal warmth and inward strength. “ _Macy, my sweet girl, the world is your weapon.”_ She blinked, steadying herself in the process.

_And all at once, everything made sense._

Concentrating every ounce of centrifugal force, her hands clenched and unfurled, bypassing the laws of physics, of gravitational pull, of every and _any_ natural and man-made confine that had sought to tear her down—the brick walls of her childhood home, separating her from her younger siblings and mother—the boarding school’s sepia walls, dripping with condescension, rife with bullying—the _pain_ —the _agony_ —she channeled _,_ with the force of a hundred suns. Screws and bolts twisted and untwisted themselves, the gigantic container breaking free just as the percentage mark had reached thirty—thirty percent of life force drained—

Her hands hovered mid-air, as Jordan gaped at the sight.

“We need to leave— _now!”_ hissed Maggie, and so they did, with a flick of the wrist, and a toss of the onyx-hued marble.

_SafeSpace Command Center, Seattle, Washington_

Beneath the glimmering royal blue of the mystical map, Mel and Abigael put the finishing touches on the remainder of each potion. It was always practical to keep a repository, just in case of the odd invasion or attack, Abigael had said, and Mel couldn’t agree more, as she corked the last of wall flower for storage in the rickety cabinet in the far corner of the Command Center, past the library section.

“Coffee?” Mel whirled around as Abigael appeared once more, this time with two identical biodegradable cups of the caffeinated substance.

“ _Thanks,”_ answered Mel gratefully, her limbs exhausted from their Friday night fervor, churning, pounding, pulverizing, and mixing every which ingredient. She took a tentative sip—dark, flavorful roast met her parched lips, along with a subtle splash of coconut-flavored almond milk and a pinch of non-sugar sweetener. Her eyes widened—this was _coquito_ -flavored. But— _how?_

“Ab-Abigael—” she stammered, “how did you know my—my—”

“Your coffee flavor?” Abigael took a deep sip of her own, her eyes never once leaving Mel’s. The next moment, her pale hand laid her own container, now stained with umber lipstick, atop the center table. “Let’s just say…I had a feeling—” her lip curled beguilingly, hiding the fact she’d accosted Ruby at the café, asking after a certain melanin-hued witch and her particular flavor preference, _accoutrements be damned_.

_Some things were better left unspoken,_ the Brit supposed. _Better the air of mystery, than a commonplace reveal. Would you care for me—love me—if you knew my heart was soft?_ She brushed the thought aside as they continued their caffeinated infusion, their internal batteries energized swiftly thereafter.

_SafeSpace Command Center, Seattle, Washington_

Sometime later, half-empty coffee cups next to the other’s, they drifted closer to partake in conversation. _Everyday conversation,_ Abigael sardonically mused to herself, _akin to workplace social norms, as if they weren’t waiting on the status of a possibly-demised—_

“I really appreciate it,” murmured Mel. _It’s the little things._ “I knew, deep down—”

Abigael’s hands twitched. _There it was again._ How could Mel possibly judge—or even _determine_ —whether there was good in her soul— _this_ soul? A hybrid soul, broken and battered beyond repair, mired by a silent, secretive Sussex past, and evil besides, oft unapologetically so? “ _You don’t know me—”_

_Maybe, witch, you never will—_

“But Abigael,” Mel’s eyes grew uncharacteristically tender, “I _want_ to.” Their hands brushed, glances steady and unwavering. Neither made a motion to otherwise move, as time froze for that infinitesimally elegant moment. “ _Please,_ Abigael, let me in?”

They continued to stare at each other, pupils dilating, as Abigael gently tucked a stray strand of raven hair behind Mel’s ear. _If I could tell you—convey to you—how I felt—oh, darling, I certainly would, my Melonie._ “ _We’re on a rescue mission_ ,” she whispered in Mel’s ear, as the latter suppressed the barest of gasps. Ordinarily, Abigael would have seized the moment for all its worth, but for whatever reason, she hesitated. _Paused,_ even. For the first time in her life, she met a woman who was beginning to truly mean the world to her, from her dark tresses and furrowed brow, to the delicate toes hidden within those high-top soles. _I want this to work out, Melonie. I want to do right by you—_

A buzz from Mel’s phone interrupted their thoughts. Alas, the moment ended just as quickly as it had begun.

_SafeSpace Command Center, Seattle, Washington_

Mel heard her phone _ping_ once, then twice more. The first time had been…she paused. _Ten?_ No _, fifteen_ minutes ago _. To retrieve a spare shirt and slacks for Harry. Weird,_ she thought. _Perhaps he was trapped in green goo or something._ Luckily, he had a spare set of clothes stashed behind the faded sofa, as he always did, ever since Macy had come into her fire powers those months ago. He favored his linens crisp and smooth, with nary a scorch, and much preferred his Old Spice cologne to what he termed “ _eau-de-barbecue.”_ His shirt lay on the adjoining table, his slacks too, surprisingly wrinkle-free, all things considered.

The second time was a single word. _Catch,_ the text read.

“ _Catch?” Catch—what exactly?_ as the familiar swirl of marbled portal emerged before the pair, and moments later, a giant behemoth of a capsule, vaguely a ton—or two—or _several—_ catapulted forth, headed straight for her. Mel ducked, or tried to, her arms flailing before her visage. _Nice knowing everyone,_ she imagined her last thoughts would be. _Especially you, Abigael_ —

But the end had not yet happened. She opened one eye, then the other, realizing Abigael’s form shielded her, those porcelain pale limbs holding the gigantic structure poised in mid-air. “Great catch,” Mel breathed, as Abigael let her hands drop, the huge metallic object falling to the floor with an echoing _clang._

“Thanks.”


	30. Twilight Treehouse Tales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry experiences amnesia and has an odd dream about a treehouse, goddesses, and the number three.

30 Twilight Treehouse Tales

_“…Where winds had beat you hollow…” -E.H. Hanson_

_Day 4 to Day 5, continued_

_SafeSpace Command Center, Seattle, Washington_

“Great catch,” Mel breathed, as Abigael let her hands drop, the huge metallic object falling to the floor with an echoing _clang._

“Thanks.”

The impact broke the glass door wide open, as a pale, limp body slid out partway.

“ _HARRY!”_

Macy fled to his side, hands beneath the weight of his body, as Mel muttered “ _posito super vestimenta sua_ ,” under her breath. The simple charm caused the silk shirt and slacks to fly forth and materialize instantly upon its as-yet unconscious owner, as Mel instinctively clasped Abigael’s hand.

“Is he—?” Macy turned to Jordan, who knelt alongside her.

He shook his head. “There,” he indicated, motioning toward Harry’s chest. “He’s breathing—might need some oxygen—but alive. Definitely alive—”

Realizing where her arm was, and her _hand_ besides, Mel released Abigael’s own and stepped closer. “We should get him on the couch—over there. Can we lift him?” And on the count of three, they did—Jordan, Macy, Mel, and Maggie.

Abigael stood back, surveying the oddly intimate familial scene. _One she had no part of. One in which, time and time again, others made known she could never belong._ “ _Farewell_ , _Melonie,”_ she whispered as she vanished, taking her Vera Manor suitcases alongside her with a brief flick of the wrist. _A nice, subtle ‘Irish goodbye’ would have to be enough. And as the Hopi would say, ‘until we meet again.’_

_SafeSpace Command Center, Seattle, Washington_

_He continued on his path past the mounds of soil ever-increasing, separating him from the glowing tree up ahead, its twinkling tealights dangling akin to chandelier earrings._

_‘Remember, remember, the Ides of November,’ its weeping willow tendrils whispered to the thrum of the warm gusting gale—he smiled, recalling a simple rhyme from his schoolboy days. One which, as a matter of fact, he himself wrote for a homework assignment. How had it gone again? The words wove themselves in front of him, glowing text that faded just as fast as he could recall them—_

_Remember, remember, the Ides of November,_

_The triad of tried and true, Juno, Jupiter, Minerva too._

_The dawn of becoming, the birth of new._

_Epulum Jovis, the chant must begin,_

_Of wisdom’s prequel to December’s wintry wind._

_He frowned, trying to remember for the life of him why on earth he decided to write that in the first place. He wasn’t much interested in Ancient Greek literature nor Ancient Roman, his Latin knowledge was abysmal, and half the time he was off at the cinema or doing the odd paid errand or two. Surely he had seen something somewhere? Something about a ‘triad’—of three? Three powerful goddess-like figures, emblems in history?_

_Continuing forth to the next lines, ‘birth’ and ‘new’ certainly sounded celebratory, but the ‘wintry wind’ phrasing seemed ominous. As he recited the lines, he noticed a most peculiar (though not entirely unwelcome) phenomenon—the chasm lessened, and grass extended its reach, carpet-like and tenuous, as the tree appeared much closer than before._

_Progress, true—but to what end?_

_He spoke the rhyme’s syllables, once, twice, then thrice more as the tree’s forked crevice widened, an artfully carved treehouse emerging, bright with glittering bulbs draped across its timbered front. ‘What in blazes—?' he muttered, his feet finally reaching the base of the trunk. Instantly, footholds appeared, nailed to the tree’s length as he debated whether to ascend into the unknown arbre._

_From his past lay a failed relationship in none but the most sordid of shambles—Clara, not to mention catastrophic heartbreak—and a son he assumed was long since gone. He began climbing, hoisting himself up by the palms of his hands._

_He had nothing to lose, after all._

_Day 5_

_Attic, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington_

The next morning, Macy glanced at the sleeping figure. Harry. _Her_ Harry. _This wasn’t supposed to happen._ She reached for his hand, drooping past the couch, and interlaced it with hers. _To show him she was here._ More minutes passed as she continued to gaze at his visage. He had never looked so peaceful; she would give anything to hear what he was thinking.

At last, she could exhale. Here he was, resting, after being kidnapped by the Faction. He was finally home. Whatever trials or tribulations there were in the ensuing days, weeks, and months—it hardly mattered to her, for they would face each together, she had no doubt about it.

_Harry, I love you._

She squeezed his hand three times in a row, as if to impart the message by osmosis. Hearing a knock at the door, she gave a start, then relaxed. _Mel, bearing breakfast._

“How is he?”

“Sleeping,” Macy answered truthfully. _And so it would seem._

“Do you want breakfast? I made some blueberry muffins—” Macy glanced at Mel curiously. _Mel never baked anything, ever. More like burned._

“You? _Baked_?”

Mel laughed. “From a box. I followed the directions this time, and they came out pretty good.”

“Maybe later—” Macy peered over at Harry. “I just _can’t._ Right now—”

“Mace,” Mel’s eyes softened. “Harry would want you to be in top monster-fighting mode. You can’t be fainting during a battle—” she offered the plate to Macy, who placed it on a nearby table.

“True,” admitted Macy, tearing off a morsel. “Thanks.”

“Anytime, sis,” Mel patted her sister’s arm reassuringly and returned to the kitchen, closing the door behind her.

_Living Room, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington_

Noticing that Abigael had been unusually quiet, Mel checked the living room and gasped. All of her suitcases, tiny, medium, large and rolling besides, were completely—she craned her neck, peering past the perimeter of the sofa—

_Gone._

“Um, Mag— _Maggie!”_ Mel called to her sister, sitting outside with Jordan in the garden.

“Yup?” Maggie appeared moments later, hair disheveled, her hands holding a sizeable mug of piping-hot hazelnut coffee.

“Have you seen Abigael? Her bags—” Mel gestured to the sofa “—are gone—”

Maggie shook her head. “I guess…she left?” She studied Mel’s visage closely, noticing her subtle sorrowful eyes, her downcast expression she sought to hide with a seemingly bright smile, but she wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all _her._ “You seem…” she hesitated, “disappointed?”

“Honestly, I—I’m not sure. I guess, talking to her yesterday, I thought…” Mel stared past Maggie at a random spot on the wall— _was that speck from an earlier vanquishing of a rogue faun?—_ before collecting her thoughts, meeting her sister’s gaze. “I thought she’d stay.” _After all, we had something together—a beautiful beginning—_

“You need to give her time,” Maggie replied knowingly. “Be patient.” She reached out, briefly grasping Mel’s hand. “ _Trust me._ She’ll come around,” before departing for the hygge coziness of Vera Manor Garden, and by extension, Jordan.

“I hope so…” Mel trailed off uncertainly, noting the emptiness of the faded velveteen couch, the unsettling quiet that scratched at her tender, tumultuous heart. _Oh Abigael, I miss you already._

_Attic, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington_

_He ascended each foothold—each makeshift ladder rung—pulling himself upward with a grunt onto the plateau of hammered wood. Encircling the intricate cabin-of-sorts, he silently noted its transparent glassy windows to a bohemian interior, resplendent with photographs held aloft by miniature craft clothespins upon glowing white twine._

_White. Alabaster. Marble. Porcelain. And—_

_Light. Brightness. Sun—or flame—fire—_

_Ambling closer to one window in particular and the photos held within, he cupped his hands ‘round his visage, squinting as he noticed an image of himself in a thin burgundy jumper, a young woman’s face blurred out, perched along his shoulder, her hands clasping what appeared to be a mustard-colored mug of—of something—he wasn’t quite sure—he reached out, the window dissolving instantly, as he catapulted forward—_

His eyes sprang open the next instant; instead of the cozy confines of the bohemian treehouse cabin—or any number of Manchester locales of ill-repute per his ne’er-do-well heyday, he instead found himself—he glanced around at the sloped ceiling, the faded walls, the curiously-angled windows—in someone’s attic.

_How peculiar—_

But his thoughts were interrupted by a most attractive member of the female species, who began speaking a sweet soliloquy of a man named Harry Greenwood.

“…Then you came along, with your tea…and your relentless loyalty…and that little wrinkle in your forehead when you’re thinking really hard. And I tried—I _really_ tried—to ignore how you make me feel.” Her voice caught, but she continued onward, blinking rapidly to dispel the very hint of tears. “The way you make me feel when I look at you…the truth is, you didn’t break through those walls, you… _melted_ them.”

He made as if to interrupt, however politely, but she put up her hand. “ _Please,_ Harry—I’m almost finished—what I’m trying to say is—I’ve gotten so good at not needing anyone, that I forgot what it was like…to _want_ someone." She smiled shyly at him, eyes aglow in reticent affection. “I want _you,_ Harry Greenwood.” Placing her hands in her lap, she backed away ever-so-slightly. “T-That’s it,” she finished, as he bore a quizzical expression.

A minute passed, then several. _Harry—say something? Anything?_

“That was a lovely speech, and that Harry fellow sounds like quite the character—but—and pardon me for asking— _where am I?”_ His gaze traveled southward below her visage, noting her attractive features—her sumptuous curves, hidden beneath nylon and cotton fabric. “And who, _pray tell,_ are you?”


	31. Of Symphonies and Sonnets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parker searches for Laila, the lost Charmed One, and is accosted by Abigael. Harry, still suffering amnesia, finds himself extremely attracted to Macy, though he can't possibly imagine why...

31 Of Symphonies and Sonnets

_“…And so to your knees you sank…” -E.H. Hanson_

_Day 5, continued_

_Attic, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington_

“That was a lovely speech, and that Harry fellow sounds like quite the character—but—and pardon me for asking— _where am I?”_ His gaze traveled southward below her visage, noting her attractive features—her sumptuous curves, hidden beneath nylon and cotton fabric. “And who, _pray tell,_ are you?”

_Asia-Pacific Exhibition, New Zealand School of Music, Victoria University of Wellington, New Zealand_

He stared at the gamelan instrument, its myriad silver-scripted gongs a variety of shapes—small, medium, large, and expansive. Running his fingers through his hair, he examined the exhibition’s tiny-lettered script, describing their purpose in Javanese and Balinese cultures, respectively—

“A little early for sight-seeing, aren’t we, brother?” He jumped, startled, having heard an all-too-familiar Sussex lilt.

“ _Abigael.”_ He groaned. _Why was she here, of all places?_ His half-sister certainly had a knack for materializing at the most inconvenient times—

“I thought you’d at _least_ feign joy at seeing your dear older sis?”

He turned back, continuing to stare at the gamelan’s metallic features. Arriving the evening before, he had conducted a series of well-chosen memory hexes that enabled him to enroll as a music department student, a cover for his true purpose—ensuring the safety of the lost Charmed One, Laila Young. But so far, even after a well-chosen jinx in the registrar’s office to confirm Laila’s enrollment, he had yet to spot her on campus.

Hours spent in bars to no end, orientation activities bereft of her presence, the dormitories practically padlocked, with special keycards he lacked access to—he sighed, exasperated. _This was, after all, penance. Penance for his wrongdoings. For hurting Maggie. But he hadn’t expected the search to be as prolonged as it was._

 _Class began tomorrow. Where on_ earth _was she?_

“I suppose I _do_ owe you a favor, for…” she paused, “imprisoning you in the subterranean dungeon—”

His temper flared. “You have _no_ idea—”

“Oh, but Parkie-poo, I _do._ I was such—a _naughty—_ girl—” And that much was certainly true, she mused, before stopping short. _What had come over her? Kindness? Empathy? Was it from witnessing the Whitelighter prostrate upon the ground, unconscious as Melonie clasped her own hand, terrified to no end?_

Whatever it was, it was rubbing off on her. “You might want to check out Adams Concert Room, _dearie—”_

Parker’s mind drew a blank. “Adams Concert Room?”

“She plays the trumpet, _does she not?”_

“Um, yeah, but what’s that got to do with anything?” _Why not—a library? A study room?_

Abigael rolled her eyes. _He’s positively daft._ “Must I spell out _everything,_ Parkie-poo?”

“Stop calling me that!”

“Ugh, _if_ you insist—”

Several deep breaths later, Parker regarded Abigael with a calculated expression. “What’s at Adams Concert Room?”

“Something that begins with an R…?” He still failed to grasp the significance—the _meaning—_ of her hints. _Men could be_ so _dense. Especially those descended from a certain infamous Hunter Caine._ “ _Rehearsal._ For a contemporary jazz group—call themselves ‘The Swans,’ they do—”

“Thanks, sis—" breathed Parker, who instantaneously dissolved, no doubt to re-materialize behind the stated location.

“ _You’re welcome,”_ responded she, to no one in particular. Glancing to her left and right, streets and corridors alike bare due to the particular early morning hour, she too vanished to catch a bit of shut-eye in a rental flat just two blocks from the Student Union. _Parker needed all the help he could get._

_Attic, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington_

_“H-Harry?”_ Macy spoke, her voice equal parts incredulous and horrified. “It’s-It’s _me. Macy._ You remember me, right?”

He shook his head. “Look, woman— _Macy—_ Miss—” he paused, “whoever-you-are, I really must depart—” Rather than step back and allow him to take his leave, the woman (admittedly quite beauteous) stood firm, refusing to so much as even _budge._ He thought back to the night before—that lovely dreamscape—likely a figment of his drunken imagination. Running through his list of potential contacts, each less helpful than the next, some sharks of the moneylending variety, he knew even Clara couldn’t help him now.

A wave of panic consumed him in the ensuing moments. Macy glanced at him; he returned her gaze, before both fixating on the door, mere feet away. _If I could just make a mad dash for it—_ he leapt with a cry, running as fast as his legs could possibly carry him—faster, even than that one time he escaped from that foul, _loathsome_ penitentiary laundromat—

_BOOM!_

His head bounced backward—his entire body too—as he was met with a reverberating invisible force field. _What on earth—?_ The palm of his hand stretched outward, and what should have been pure air and everyday atmosphere was instead an oddly-hard-yet-vibrating, almost _gelatinous_ shell. Eyes wide, he met the statuesque woman’s stare and slowly backed away from the door.

_This was going to be a very long day, indeed._

_Adams Concert Room, New Zealand School of Music, Victoria University of Wellington, New Zealand_

One hundred and forty seats, _plush and smooth_ , he noticed, his hand grazing each fancily upholstered aisle. Glancing at the stage, he noticed a sizable group of instrumentalists and groaned aloud. _Finding Laila in this crowd would be near-impossible._

Exhausted after running across every square foot of greenery-laden campus, he decided to sit toward the middle, occupying a cushioned seat just right of the outstretched aisle. He observed multiple rungs of polished timber, combined with what he guessed were set ladders, creating what appeared to be a second floor to the stage below. Set lights glowed in an orange-amber hue as the music students listened on to their tutor about proper trumpeting form.

On occasion, music stands creaked and whispered, as the instrumentalists, pencil in hand, made markings onto their sheet music. _Crescendo. Decrescendo. Forte. Mezzo Forte. And so on, he imagined._

Having spent his entire childhood ill, he had often wondered what it would have been like to become a musician. Sure, he did learn an instrument, but practicing became near impossible with every looming hospital visit that only seemed to make him feel worse. Coughing and aching limbs aside, he wished he’d had that chance—that _opportunity—_ to learn who he was, outside his family—outside his _illness._

_Sure, he had Hilltowne, and at one point, Maggie. But he’d destroyed everything beyond repair._

There was no going back, that much he knew for certain. _But what if—_

_What if this—what if Laila—is my second chance?_

With a flick of his wrist, his trumpet case appeared at his feet, a purchase made earlier in order to play the proper role. _To blend in. And so on._ Due to his nature, he had the ability to acquire select skill sets in a fraction of the time it would take others.

_Music was no exception._

At the same time, he could use some fine-tuning. He’d reserved Room 109 to practice, just in case. He wanted to do this right. _Live his life. Learn the joys of music. Redeem himself. And finally—_

_Be happy._

_Attic, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington_

The tall woman approached him with a sort of—he examined the substance— _blue goo? Marbled paint?_ Whatever it was, he backed away on instinct. “I’m going to put this on you,” she continued, “to help you regain your memories—of _magic—_ ”

 _But I was—and am—a terrible excuse of a man,_ he thought to himself, though he certainly would not say this out loud to such a becoming woman. _I can’t let her think less of me. Though I can’t imagine why I feel the way I do—_ he decided upon a veneer of false bravado. “Oh, like silly pixies and _fairy_ dust?” He squinted his eyes in mock-disbelief, nevertheless hoping the lady would show him more. _More of the mystical, more of her sumptuous mahogany curls that played and danced about her smooth-sloping shoulders—and those_ lips _of hers—oh my, my, my…_

“No, _Sprog—”_ her French-manicured hand tapped the brush handle’s side against the container of blue goo, to further thin the eerie substance. “It’s _not_ silly. And magic’s _real._ ” She knelt at his side, sweeping up a sampler of substance, inching forward bit-by-bit. Shuddering, his eyes met hers, and instantly she understood what it must be like for a British gentleman to find himself catapulted multiple decades into the future, to a contemporary continent, entrapped in an attic that was most certainly _not_ his own.

Macy remembered the feeling all too well, pausing to survey her wrists, where ropes had once been, months ago. She had awoken, tied to a chair, her sisters too, as a far-too-smug Harry Greenwood, Windsor knot and all, explained the existence and intricacies of magic. At least she and her sisters _had_ a choice, she reflected. Harry, on the other hand, had not _._

Whoever this—this _Harry—_ or _Jimmy—_ was, he was probably terrified out of his gourd. And Macy couldn’t blame him. Perhaps he thought this was a botched ransom attempt gone horribly wrong, or that he’d hit himself on Manchester’s cobblestone streets while inebriated. The Elders had never once afforded him a choice. It was up to her, then, to make sure he felt at ease. _Comfortable. Appreciated. Somehow—loved._

“This will dislodge memories,” she continued softly. “You will remember who you are.” _We’re here to help, Harry,_ her eyes met his, large and expressive and sweet. _Please—_

He couldn’t help but admire this strong woman and her seeming altruistic motives. _Why would anyone help me—save me?_ he wondered to himself. _I’m nobody. I’m just—_

_I’m just Jimmy._

“May I?” her voice trembled but a fraction, brush poised at the ready.

Finally, he nodded, resigned to his fate. “Proceed, if you must—”

She bit back a smile, considering herself fortunate that he was allowing her access to his innermost cerebral sanctum. “ _Macy._ The name’s _Macy.”_

“Alright. _Macy.”_ The taste of her name upon his lips this time around was simply _divine._ As though he had dreamt of her, admired her form from a polite distance, flowing curls and lilting expression, unwaveringly so. The stuff of Shakespearean sonnets and Petrarchan rhymes.

“Do you trust me?”

He swallowed hard, studying the blue paint and— _her._ “ _Yes_ ,” he whispered. “ _With all my heart_.”


	32. Of Wellington and Wilderness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parker and Laila formally meet in New Zealand during a trumpet lesson. Macy is unconscious. After everything sorts itself out, Maggie has a Hacy vision that makes her blush.

32 Of Wellington and Wilderness

_“…For the wild has been at work here…” -E.H. Hanson_

_Day 5, continued_

_Attic, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington_

Jordan had learned a great many things serving in the armed forces.

_How to tourniquet the shoulder of an amnesiac._

_How to alleviate a medication allergy._

_How to address a seizure-prone pedestrian._

However, staring at the scene before him, he’d never learned how to meet the needs of a 1940s-era amnesiac, a seizure-prone woman, and the ill effects of magical balm… _at the same time._

Stroking his goatee, he groaned. “ _How_ did this happen, Harry?” as the man before him exhaled sharply.

“My name isn’t Harry, it’s Jimmy!” came the indignant reply.

 _Ok Jordan,_ he told himself. _Let’s start over._ “Lemme get this straight—Macy took some of _that—”_ pointing at the blue goo, “then rubbed some on your forehead, and it bounced her—” waving about, “ _here?”_

“Yes, that is correct. It appears to have backfired—” _Please let this sweet, beautiful woman be alright!_ Harry (amnesia in full force) ran his hands through his chestnut hair. He couldn’t fathom that anyone so lovely would even _deign_ to want to save him—a sniveling snitch, a pathetic excuse of a Manchesterian— _Jimmy Westwell._

 _Ixnay on the blue oogay,_ Jordan told himself. _Who knew what powers it held?_ Recalling his training, he prioritized the person whose medical emergency was deemed the most critical—in this case, the female unconscious before them, whose seizing had stopped a few seconds after he’d arrived. When he heard Harry’s bellowing voice through her smartphone, he knew something terrible had to have happened.

“You’ve gotta heal her, Harry!”

Harry frowned, ignoring the fact this tall, well-muscled twenty-something youth had called him ‘Harry’ rather than ‘Jimmy.’ _Perhaps when this is all over, I’ll legally change my name to match this Harry fellow’s, and have his luck too—_

 _“How?”_ Jordan made motions with his hands for Harry to follow as the Whitelighter normally would when healing the Charmed Ones, but the man shook his head, increasingly confused.

Running through his list of options, Macy’s breath growing increasingly labored, Jordan turned to Harry with a particularly fierce gleam in his eye, having had an epiphany of sorts. “Your ear—that cut looks recent—" Immediately, memories of cyber training flashed before his eyes. _Microchips included._ “I need to cut that out of you—”

Harry scrunched his mouth. “I _beg_ your pardon? Cut _what_ out of me?”

“The microchip the Faction probably implanted—it’s the only way you’ll remember—to save Macy—”

They paused mid-conversation, as Macy’s exhalations turned to a fast-fading rattle.

“Ok, I’ll do it—”

 _Whoa, seriously, dude? That wasn’t as hard as I thought that’d be,_ mused Jordan with surprise.

“Hurry on, get it over with, before I change my mind,” added Harry. _Whatever it took to save this exquisite angel of sun-kissed hue who possessed the prettiest melanin curls he had ever seen in his life. Please do not perish on my account—“Macy,”_ he ended in the barest of whispers.

_Attic, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington_

Several sharp and agonizing seconds later, memories flooded his subconscious—

 _Ropes surrounded three women‘s wrists in Vera Manor’s attic, himself smugly displaying the weathered pages of the Book of Shadows—the oldest Charmed One_ _breathtakingly dressed in a Grecian tunic as Persephone, goddess of light and darkness—his Darklighter, as he told her to flee, herself hesitating out of the deepest of feelings—awakening amidst fresh-hewn soil soon after—the utterance of ‘Hut 8’ and a more-than-platonic hug—their late nights talking, always talking, first within the Command Center, her mahogany curls draped over her SafeSpace hoodie, then at Vera Manor as they chopped leeks and potatoes for dinner—and the garden, where they laughed and cried and discussed their hopes for the other Charmed Ones—Mel and Maggie both—for the women they were, for the powerful heroes they would soon be—_

_For in this life, they—all of them—were constantly in flux, always moving—always changing, always—_

_Becoming._

He bolted upright from the couch, adrenaline coursing through his veins. _Oh my—_

_My Macy!_

Instantly, Harry kneeled at her side, his hand awash in blinding light above her forehead. _Please, Macy, please—please be alright—I cannot live in a world that does not have you—please—_ he choked back a sob as he cradled her body in his arms in the next moment.

And— _miracle of miracles!—_ she blinked as a familiar rosiness returned to her golden cheeks. “Oh _Harry,”_ she murmured. “Is it really you?” She reached out to stroke his visage.

“Yes—” he cried aloud as they hugged, neither willing to let the other go.

_Outside Hunter Council Chamber, New Zealand School of Music, Victoria University of Wellington, New Zealand_

He stared at the brass signage, his lips twisting into a peculiar expression not unlike Abigael’s, the irony not lost upon him. Abigael had departed to— _wherever she had. And he—_

He was finally alone. _Well, not exactly,_ as he saw a trickle of students, trumpet cases in hand, enter the auditorium’s grandeur.

_Here goes nothing._

_Hunter Council Chamber, New Zealand School of Music, Victoria University of Wellington, New Zealand_

Had he entered a pre-war Austrian ballroom? The place was surprisingly ornate, with plaster-and-citrine-carved etchings upon the expansive ceiling, smooth buttercup walls with alternating marbled pillars, plush maroon folded seating, and polished wood flooring. Toward the front of the fancy chamber was the stage, a walnut wood set of bleachers set upon it.

A raven-haired young woman suddenly caught his eye. _Was it?_ He moved closer and found an empty spot next to her. Unlocking his trumpet case, he found her eyes fixed on him. _Had she sensed something of his odd motives?_

“Hi,” she proffered her hand after they gazed at each other in silence, lost in their own world for minutes that felt like hours—as cases banged open and horns were tested for timbre. “I’m Laila. Laila Young. You’re…?”

“Parker,” he hastily replied as they shook hands. _Caine._ “Just—Parker.”

Her eyes shone with sly mirth. “Ok, _just_ Parker—nice to meet you too.”

_Maggie’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington_

“From the moment you were born, I never once questioned—I never once considered you _not_ my child. _Never once._ To do so—” he sighed. “To do so would’ve been too damn _hard.”_

 _Answers at last,_ Maggie told herself. _Finally._ The knowledge that Ray Vera, the man who had loved her as a father only could, despite his wayward ways, felt so strongly about her, reassured her to no end. _Love is neither unobtainable nor finite._

_Plenty of love, there was—to go around._

Wiping her eyes, she glanced at Mel who had taken silent refuge in the doorway, protective of her littlest sister as always. Giving Ray a chance, for an explanation as to why he left—why he didn’t—just—she sighed. _So many questions, each larger and more looming than the other._

_But perhaps—perhaps it was best to let bygones be bygones._

She found herself in a surprisingly charitable mood, given all that had transpired in the earlier hours. Macy was alive, Harry had his memory back, Ray had finally discussed what had long since been the elephant in the room. _It was time for a reprieve, after these tumultuous experiences._

All of a sudden, the doorbell rang.

Ray, Maggie, and Mel gave a start. _The doorbell?_ Mel checked her phone. It was late evening. _Who could possibly—_

_Front Entryway, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington_

Out of an abundance of caution, all three—Ray, Maggie, and Mel approached the door. “On a count of one—two— _three—”_ Mel mouthed as Maggie threw the door open—

_It was Antonio._

“Oh, hey cuz!” Maggie cheerily exclaimed as Mel glared at her. “ _What?”_

“ _You told him where we—”_

“Nope,” Antonio interjected. “I just had—a _feeling—”_ he tapped the side of his head. _His powers, whatever they were._

“Oh.” _Right._ Mel coughed indelicately. “So, uh, what brings you to this neck of the woods?”

“Well…Macy mentioned I was welcome to stop by, and I finished moving in, and I happened to be in the neighborhood—”

_A neighborhood that constituted an abandoned work site and the brick corridors of SafeSpace nearby._

“Huh.” Mel was lost for words. _Invite him in? Or—_

“Join us for dinner and drinks? SafeSpace Café? Ray, me, Mel?” she felt a buzz from her phone. “And maybe Jordan?”

“Sure!” Antonio looked relieved, hoping he wasn’t intruding upon the cozy familial atmosphere.

“Besides,” Maggie went on, “the Conqueror needs destroying—I’ll fill you in. We could use your help—”

“And I’d be glad to assist—” Antonio interjected. “Does _he_ know?” nodding over at Ray.

“Yeah,” Mel responded. “He’s…been helpful…at times…” she found herself grudgingly admitting aloud, as Ray bit back a grin. _His Torito._

_Outside Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington_

They closed the door to Vera Manor as their feet met the concrete sidewalk. “Wait…” Mel paused. “What about Harry and Macy?”

Maggie blushed, though the darkness hid her crimson pallor. “Ummmm….” _A flash—a vignette—appeared before her eyes—a slow and sensual dance—a meeting of the minds, hearts, and souls at long last—and hours upon hours later—the walls, positively thrumming…_

 _“Omigawd—”_ her eyes grew large as plates as she turned a deeper shade of beet red. _And was that Harry’s—oh jeez. Ewwwwww…TMI._ “Hurry up! Extended happy hour!” she exclaimed a bit too loudly, steering everyone in the direction of SafeSpace. “Drinks on me!”


	33. Dance Before the Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Macy enjoy a dance beneath Vera Manor Garden's tealights. The morning after, Maggie and Mel wake up to (minor) property damage. Parker and Laila have a happily-ever-after (or something like it).

33 Dance Before the Dawn

_“…Your past self is no more…” -E.H. Hanson_

_Day 5, continued_

_Outside Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington_

“Hurry up! Extended happy hour!” she exclaimed a bit too loudly, steering everyone in the direction of SafeSpace. “Drinks on me!”

_Vera Manor Garden, Seattle, Washington_

“What’re you doing?” He rotated his glass of Chablis, sipping slowly as he stared at the positively _divine_ figure swaying to and fro on the stair steps above. _Macy. Or more importantly—_ his _Macy._

She swiveled around, arms outstretched as if beckoning forth an embrace to the universe. “ _Dancing—”_

“You hit your head quite hard earlier, you might still have a concussion—” he paced a bit, studying her ever the more. The woman shook her head.

“ _No,_ Harry. What I have is—” she paused, “— _clarity.”_ She traveled lightly with a spring in her step until she was at the base of the garden cobblestone stair. “I can’t temper my feelings—I can’t wait any longer. I can’t ignore those unspoken needs—those what-might-have-beens—those ever-present _wants_ —"

He placed the long-stemmed glass down atop the patio table. “And what is it you want _?”_ The world seemed to pause as twinkling tea lights glimmered overhead, illuminating flora and fauna amidst the cloak of darkness. Harry’s eyes shone with a certain onyx luster, causing Macy to inhale sharply.

“ _You,_ Harry Greenwood. I want you—” She blinked hard, attempting to steady her voice. “I want you to get your ass over here and dance with me.” _Please?_ Her eyes beseeched him, almost pleadingly so as he responded with the most subtle of quintessentially British smiles.

_Anything for you, love._

The sultry lyrics of Arlissa filtered through the confines of the glassy solarium to the outdoors as Macy offered her hand, placing her other around his back. In turn, one hand of his met hers as the other wound its way to her back. _Not her arse, as Jimmy would have done._ He, Harry Greenwood, preferred a deferential, dutiful approach in the slow-burning ardor he and this extraordinary woman before him shared—

Inhaling her cinnamon-scented curls, their eyes met.

 _Are you sure?_ For a flicker of a millisecond, his eyes grew round, inquisitive.

 _Yes—yes—absolutely, yes—_ a barely perceptible nod, and he welcomed what he hoped would follow…

Drawing nearer, their lips finally met, a soft brush of one upon the other—a kiss which soon turned into two, then three—

Aiming to prevent himself from doing anything untoward (and in full view of Vera Manor) he paused mid-kiss—and indulged himself in a moment of pure spontaneity, twirling Macy about, her giggles a balm for his worn, wayward soul. _Oh Macy Vaughn, the things you make me feel—_

Macy stopped in her tracks as Harry froze. _Had he actually said the last phrase out loud?_ But his worry was for naught, as they found themselves kissing with ever-increasing fervor along one of the garden posts which held up the intricate trellised vines and ever-sparkling tea lights…

_Outside Hunter Council Chamber, New Zealand School of Music, Victoria University of Wellington, New Zealand_

Three hours of intense rehearsal later, Parker couldn’t shake the fact he was being watched. After a swig of water from the nearby water fountain, he turned and spotted a familiar face. _Laila. Stand partner, lost Charmed One Laila—_ leaning against a fancy marbled pillar _._ He raised an eyebrow, a bemused expression upon his visage. “Why’re you looking at me like that?”

She approached him, step-by-step, until they were roughly two feet apart. “Like what?”

“Like…” He paused, searching for the proper descriptive term, “…I’m a snack?”

She laughed. “I need a partner—”

 _A partner? That’s very—“_ direct.” He spoke the last word aloud.

“Ballroom lesson. Arts elective, second floor. You in?” She mock-fluttered her lashes with a certain underlying coquettishness, and Parker gave her points for effort.

He tilted his head, playing dumb. “Is this a date, Laila?”

“Do you want it to be?”

_Second Floor Ballroom, New Zealand School of Music, Victoria University of Wellington, New Zealand_

And there he was, Laila’s visage atop his shoulder as he smiled, taken in by the raven-haired beauty. _Was there such a thing as a power of persuasion, in the mystical world?_ Maybe or maybe not. Either way, he, Parker Caine, was at a dance with a charming young woman, and there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

_Next Day_

_Solarium, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington_

Sipping her coffee, Maggie angled her visage once more, staring at the fence post holding the trellised tea lights aloft. _Something seemed…different._ The post appeared angled at a subtle 80 degrees rather than the typical 90-degree perpendicular direction. _Weird._ And that crack in the solarium glass— _had that always been there?_ She reached over to touch it—

“Morning, Mags—” Mel called out from the kitchen, as Maggie withdrew her hand, which had been inches away from the pane.

_Another time._

“Hey…” Maggie’s voice trailed off. _Maybe Harry got new nails and forgot to tell everyone?_

_Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington_

Maggie entered the kitchen as Mel held up a saucer that had laid on the counter from the night before. “Does this look weird to you?” The older Charmed One frowned, studying the delicate porcelain.

“Um, it has a tiny chip?” Maggie ventured, spotting the tiniest indentation along the plate’s perimeter. “Dunno how it got there though…”

“ _Whatever—”_ Mel turned to the cabinet, retrieving a glass. Last night’s SafeSpace discussion, followed by SafeSpace debauchery, had given her a headache which she planned to remedy with the appropriate medication. Glancing over at her sister, she noticed (with some envy) how she appeared bright and chipper as ever. _No wonder she loved sorority parties._

_Living Room, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington_

Fifteen minutes later, Mel felt more herself as she proceeded to the living room, silently hoping Abigael had left a note of some kind—a token of appreciation—something— _anything._

_Alas, there was none._

Heaving a sigh, she made as if to leave but stopped, doing a double take of the faded velveteen couch. Noticing a miniscule tear, she fingered the torn fabric. _Another one bites the dust._ It was funny how everything seemed to fall apart at the same time—broken this, broken that, damaged item to damaged item. _Could this be a karmic aftereffect of Harry regaining his memory?_ She made a mental note to ask her Whitelighter later.

Touching the room’s entryway leading to the front door, she drew back sharply. _A dent—_ she peered at the floor below, spotting a fine powdery substance matching the walls— _and paint chips. What the hell?_

_Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington_

Mel returned to the kitchen, sitting at the counter beside her youngest sister. “Maggie, have you seen Macy?”

Maggie shook her head. “Not since yesterday. She hasn’t gotten up yet—” as she suddenly recalled the second floor portrait of Great-Great-Grandma Flores, tilted at a strange angle. _Something didn’t seem right…_ She met Mel’s eyes in concern—

_CRASH!_

Both girls gave a start at the unexpected noise. “ _What was that?”_ Mel whispered as they rose from their seats.

_Hallway, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington_

Armed with an antique vase, Mel and Maggie stood poised, ready for battle, just behind Macy’s bedroom door. “MACY, ARE YOU OK?” They stared at each other as they heard muffled voices— _a groan_ —and an oddly familiar _swoosh_ —as they barricaded their way through—

“H-hey,” they saw their sister, perched cross-legged atop a stool just in front of her mirror— _was her hair tangled in it?_ “W-What’s up?”

Noticing Macy’s slinky silk maroon negligee, they frowned. _What the—_ as their eyes veered downward to a pair of elegant tailor-made leather loafers.

The sisters glanced at each other, exchanging nervous thin-lipped smiles and shoulder shrugs. _Oh myyyyyyy…._

_Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington_

“And then we’ll have to—” Macy turned around from the coffee machine, sipping her beverage as she faced her sisters, both of which had extremely curious expressions on their faces, not unlike the look Dexter would give her in college on the rare occasion she snuck in at 4 am. “ _What?” Play it cool,_ she reminded herself. _Braiding your hair after all…that and putting on a new turquoise blouse will surely distract Maggie—_

“Are we gonna talk about it?” Maggie asked.

“Talk about what?”

“You know,” Mel chimed in. “The elephant who orbed out of your room, goes by—”

“Harry!” exclaimed Maggie, elbowing Mel in the ribs. He had an undeniable spring in his step. _Was that because of…?_

“Here’s your coffee, Harry,” Macy offered him a ceramic glass, biting back a grin as he enveloped his hand around hers.

Maggie sipped from her own cup, made of the same material, cringing as certain phantom noises entered her mind. _Yup. Definitely because of that. Real subtle, you two._ Realizing Harry and Macy were too absorbed in each other’s presence to notice herself and Mel, she mouthed to her middle sister, _privacy candle?_

Rolling her eyes, Mel nodded. “ _Attic by the essential oil drawers,”_ she all but whispered as Maggie made a mad dash to search for the object, returning several surprisingly short minutes later, plunking it onto the counter and jolting Harry and Macy out of their reverie.

“What’s— _oh—”_ Macy recognized the privacy candle almost immediately. _But we weren’t_ that _loud!_

Mel and Maggie pushed the candle closer to their oldest sister. “For…the future…” Mel stated matter-of-factly as Harry blushed a deep crimson.

“And try not to cause _too_ much property damage while you’re at it?” added Maggie with a wink as Macy choked on her coffee.

“Damage? Like what?” asked Macy.

“The fence post, the solarium window, the kitchen saucer, the living room sofa—” Mel listed.

“Ok, _ok!_ Sheesh—” Macy glared at the two, nodding over at Harry, who appeared to be flattening himself against the adjoining kitchen counter in a vain attempt at invisibility. “ _Anything else?”_

“Well, now that you mention it…” Mel paused, eyes growing soft. “We’re really, _really_ happy for you two—”

“The birth of Hacy,” the youngest Charmed One interjected, grinning. “So, uh, when’s the wedding?”

“ _MAGGIE!”_


	34. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone arrives for a Vera Manor family dinner, one week into the start of term.

_Epilogue_

_“…It’s just your breath upon the breeze/Your soul amongst the forest floor…” -E.H. Hanson_

_Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington_

The first week of school came and went; Maggie found herself in fierce competition with Antonio, almost _annoyingly_ so— _who knew a cousin of theirs was that knowledgeable…and that infuriatingly bright?_ Still, she was determined to ace her classes and be the best dual psychology-women’s studies student she could possibly be.

“Hey, beautiful,” a low voice murmured. _Jordan._

“Hey _yourself,”_ as they kissed, ignoring the fast-bubbling _Sancocho_ soup, its rich broth teeming with fresh-cut potatoes, yellow corn, peeled plantains, diced bell pepper, and chopped chayote squash.

“The soup’s not going to stir itself, you know,” both groaned as they heard a familiar voice behind them. _Mel._

“Hello to you too, sis. Is Abigael…?” Maggie was almost afraid to ask.

Mel nodded. “She said she might pop by later this evening. Something about a rogue zoonotic trial in the Underworld—” as the doorbell rang—

“I’ll get it, babe,” Jordan murmured, kissing Maggie’s forehead as she bit her lip, hiding a smile. _Formidable though she was, she enjoyed being pampered with sweet and sultry words…_

_Front Entryway, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington_

“Hi,” Antonio spoke, surprised at the welcoming committee greeting him at the front door—Jordan, Harry, and— _he paused_ —Macy, his older cousin, currently descending the stairwell. “I brought _domplines con habichuelas._ Fried dumplings with stewed bean dipping sauce.”

“Sounds _utterly_ scrumptious,” Harry remarked as Jordan reached for the dish, each of the men clapping Antonio on the back.

“Welcome to the Brotherhood,” Jordan stated as Antonio crossed Vera Manor’s threshold.

“The _Brotherhood?”_ Antonio bore a puzzled expression.

“Of the Charmed Ones,” Harry added. “Don’t worry, you’ll fit right in!”

Mel approached Antonio for a brief hello and made to close the front door, but a lilted Sussex voice caused her to halt in her tracks. Cracking open the door a few inches, she noticed a familiar lithe figure at the end of the front porch staircase.

“Is there room for one more?” The brunette held up a fancifully-wrapped loaf. “Chocolate sponge with _chocolat chaud_ custard. _Extra_ sinful, might I add—” she uttered by way of explanation.

The Charmed One grinned, her cheeks turning a faint crimson. “For you? _Always.”_

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! My goal was to complete this story just before S3 Charmed, so--done & done. Yay! I'll be watching S3 in the coming weeks to get more fanfic ideas. In the meantime, I'll be writing original paranormal stories on WP (i.e.: "Imposter Syndrome," about a consultant with super-empath abilities in a dream job that...isn't).


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